


Games We Play

by vlalekat



Series: Games We Play [1]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Alcohol, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Asian-American Character, Attempted non-con in one chapter, Bisexual Female Character, Bisexual Female Character of Color, Canon Character of Color, Eventual Relationships, Eventual Romance, Eventual Sex, Explicit Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Implied F/F, Implied Femslash, Lies, Mind Games, Minor Original Character(s), Minor canon divergence, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Promiscuity, Romance, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Smoking, Trust, Trust Issues, Your fave is problematic, and it's off-screen, but he's also not a monster, but the attempter gets his ass kicked, deacon is not a good guy, search for redemption
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-15
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-09-07 06:08:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 41,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8786578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vlalekat/pseuds/vlalekat
Summary: He almost drops his juggling facts on an unseasonably warm day near the end of December. They’re sitting around the cookfire at Taffington - Mercer Safehouse, now - and getting ready to head back to HQ. She mentions, off-handedly, that she found an extra pack of smokes in the boathouse and brought them for him. And then, stupidly, he says this:“Gee, thanks. You’re such a peach.” ---Deacon tries to teach Charmer tradecraft, but she's harder to read than he anticipated.Everything belongs to Bethesda and I'm just having fun.





	1. Lies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Momoko means “peach” in Japanese. Yes, this is pertinent to the story.

_ lie(s) _

_ noun  _

_ a false statement made with deliberate intent to deceive; an intentional untruth; a falsehood.  _

 

It’s difficult, sometimes, keeping track of what he really knows about Charmer and what he’s  _ allowed _ to know about her. Or at least it would be, if his entire brain wasn’t divided into truth and non-truth. It’s just one more dual list of facts to keep in mind, one more set of lies to tally. It’s only slightly complicated by the fact that she keeps feeding him information that is patently false but that he isn’t  _ supposed _ to know is untrue.

Deacon knows, for example, that she is the mother of Shaun, the Director. He knows that she was frozen for two centuries before the Institute freed her from the cryo pod in Vault 111. He knows that before the war, she was a lawyer, and that she loved musicals and even starred in a couple in college. He knows that when she escaped the vault, she wandered the wasteland for weeks, learning to scavenge and defend herself, even as all major threats were  _ somehow _ removed before she could end up in real danger.   


He also knows, conversely, that she doesn’t talk about her past or where she comes from. She hates the Institute as much as anyone else, but when questioned only gives bland platitudes. She killed a courser before she found them in the crypt beneath the church but doesn’t like to brag about it. She’s quick with a pistol but prefers to linger in the shadows and, when possible, talk her way out of a problem. 

Some of the lies are small, inconsequential. Before they formally met, he overheard her telling Savoldi that she hated Nuka Quantum, but she’s told him she loathes the Cherry variety while she sipped a Quantum and vodka. When added to the other lies and omissions he has to keep track of, the weight of her lies isn’t so heavy. 

It takes a liar to recognize a liar, and Deacon, well, he’s a  _ master _ . 

He doesn’t mention that he knows she’s untruthful - it’s part of their unspoken agreement. Just as no parents named them “Charmer” or “Deacon,” he wouldn’t betray the game by telling her outright that he knows her stories are phony. He reasons that he shouldn’t know that her name is really Momoko or that she is so driven because of her son. He’s not really sure what her endgame is anyway - not now that she knows the truth about who that baby grew up to be.

If he forces her to be honest, after all, he’ll have to be too. It’s only fair, and whatever else -  _ whoever _ else - Deacon is, he’s very interested in fairness.

So he keeps his mouth shut and keeps his tally and follows her around the wasteland, from dead drop to safe house to Bunker Hill to HQ and around again, destroying those who stand in their way and letting her spin her tales.

He almost drops his juggling facts on an unseasonably warm day near the end of December. They’re sitting around the cookfire at Taffington - Mercer Safehouse, now - and getting ready to head back to HQ. She mentions, off-handedly, that she found an extra pack of smokes in the boathouse and brought them for him. And then, stupidly, he says this:

“Gee, thanks. You’re such a peach.” 

It’s only a moment, but he realizes the second after she does what he said. Time stops and he’s not sure if it’s the narrowing of her eyes, or the way her hands pause slightly as she shoves things in her pack, but he realizes suddenly that it’s all going to come crashing down on him in a moment.

The time starts up again, faster somehow than before, and she just smiles and says he’s welcome and brushes her hair out of her eyes in that way she has while he thanks whatever deity is listening for the protection his sunglasses grant. When they start on the road, everything feels companionable again: just two world-class liars on a morning stroll but really out to destroy a megalomaniac’s empire. You know, the usual.

Deacon’s old enough to know better. He’s been doing this for more than twenty years, since he himself left the Institute. He’s never slipped before - he’s always invented different stories to tell different people, sometimes contradicting each other. Keeping people on their toes is, like, his  _ thing _ and now he’s blown it.

She grants him a sidelong glance as they trek down the road together, shoulders bumping companionably in the morning sun, and a trickle of sweat beads its way down his scalp under the heavy wig he’s wearing. Some days he wonders why he bothers. Other days he wonders what color his hair would be now - still ginger and gold, or gray like his father’s?

Their boots make a rhythmic tattoo on the broken pavement as they head south. He keeps catching her glancing at him with the same look on her face: like a piece of a puzzle has just appeared in an unexpected place. The first couple times he catches her he asks her if she needed something, and the second time she asks for a cigarette.

Even though they’ve been on the road together for  _ months _ and he has literally  _ never _ seen her smoke before, she lights it and sucks in the smoke easily, holding it casually at her side as they walk. A thought occurs to him that he may have met his match and he tamps it back down, trying to avoid the annoyance that the idea he might be getting played raises in him. Instead he lights his own cigarette and keeps an eye on the hill to their right. He’d hate for something to sneak up on them. 

It’s been killing him, the last few months. Usually he loves knowing more about people than they realize he does. It’s a game he plays with himself, conning them into revealing things he already knows about them. And yet, somehow, she keeps him on his toes.

It’s frustrating as all hell not to be in charge.

“So what was it actually like in the Institute? I mean, what was it like as a synth?” 

Deacon can tell what she’s doing; she’s trying to catch him in a lie. He’s done enough of it to realize when it’s being done to him. Whether it’s because he fucked up earlier calling her a peach or because she’s somehow always known, it’s clear she doesn’t buy that story. She didn’t fall for the one about him being the leader of the Railroad, either, although in some ways that’s probably closest to the truth.

As if he’d ever tell anyone the truth. It’s too ugly, too complicated and disgusting to share.

It’s the root of all his lies.

“Well, you know,” he reaches into his memory, trying to come up with a bit of bullshit that’s mundane enough that she’ll lose interest but not so close to the truth that it leaves him devastated later. “There was a lot of cleaning,” he finishes, knowing even before she arches her eyebrow at him that this was too lame; she can smell it.

“That’s all you have to say?” Her voice is lightly-accented; her years in Japan before the war are obvious every time she speaks. There’s a tone to it he finds beautiful; it always makes him sad that he didn’t get to see the world before it was destroyed.

“Mopping floors was mostly what I did. Why do you think I wanted to leave?” From the look in her eyes, it’s clear that this joke’s flat too and he drops the act. “How did you know?”

A piece of paper flips out of her hand and into his face, sticking on his lower lip for a moment before it flutters to the ground. He knows even without looking at it that it’s his ‘recall code.’

“‘You can’t trust everyone.’ Geez, man,” she snorts, and has to give it to her: she has a point. He has no one to blame for that one. She’s no idiot and has shown herself to have one of the most curious and logical brains he’s ever encountered - of course she picked up that he wasn’t telling the truth and read it.

Charmer takes a drag of the cigarette and blows out the smoke at him, her mouth turned down in annoyance even as her eyes twinkle at him. She’s not really mad after all.

“So you’re not the leader of the Railroad, obviously,” she counts off the pointer finger on her left hand and moves to the middle. “And you’re not an ‘escaped synth.’ So what’s really going on here? How did you get into this?”

It’s on the tip of his tongue. He suddenly wants to tell her the truth, about growing up below ground, about being shunted into a job that made him hate himself, about the subjugation he saw every day. He wants to tell her, but it’s too hard and so he doesn’t.

Instead he settles for a half-truth, the story about the University Point Deathclaws and the synth they killed. The story that features Barbara and his revenge. There’s enough of the truth in it that when he tells it, he hits all the high and low points. Maybe she’ll just leave him alone.

Charmer’s still looking at him skeptically from under the veil of her eyelashes. Is it just his lies that make her doubt him, or does it go deeper than that - is it the tragedy of Shaun and the Institute? Did something happen before she was frozen that made her doubt everything?

She was a lawyer, after all. 

“How long is this story going to be true?” She asks finally. 

Nope, she doesn’t buy it. Just as he feared. Feared? Thought? Assumed? He’s not sure what he really thought.

“It expires at midnight,” he says. His voice sounds more jovial than he feels. Inside he’s tense and somehow exhausted from all the lies. He tosses his cigarette by the side of the road, crushing it out with his boot.

All this joke earns is a nod from her. Not even a smile. 

Ahead of them, a bridge looms. It looks empty, but that’s when things seem to be most dangerous. He pauses in the road and bends at the knee, lowering his profile. Something about the bridge sets him ill at-ease. Charmer follows his lead and ups the ante by pulling Deliverer from her holster and tossing her own cigarette butt onto the pavement.

“I don’t like this,” he says, somewhat unnecessarily as they slink towards the bridge. Still, no one’s in sight. 

“I will hasten and not delay to follow your commands,” she says softly, and that rings a dim bell for him but he can’t figure out why.

“What?” He whispers as they creep ever closer to the bridge. He’d feel better about the whole thing if there wasn’t a mostly-intact Corvega lying on its side facing the wrong way and blocking most the the entrance. Anything could be lurking behind that thing.

“It’s from the Bible, genius,” Charmer murmurs to the left of his shoulder. “One of the Psalms. It means I trust you. You did call yourself ‘Deacon,’ I thought for sure you’d get that one.”

She trusts him. Somehow, despite the snarl of deceit between them, she still trusts him when it matters. Something in this warms him deep in his gut, in a place where he hasn’t been warm in a very long time. 

 


	2. Flattery

_ flattery _

_ noun _

_ insincere or excessive praise _

 

The thing about complimenting people is that they’re always more willing to share things with you if they like you. After all, who do you like the most? People who say nice things to you, people who appreciate you. It was pretty early on that Deacon discovered this cute little trick, and after that, it was incredible the tidbits that dropped out of people’s mouths. If all they could remember was “that nice guy in the sunglasses,” so much the better.

He can’t remember who taught him that one. The list of people he definitely  _ didn’t _ learn it from is a helluva lot longer. Ayo favored shouting at people who didn’t get things done right, and Des, for all her great leadership skills, tends more towards using disappointment as a motivator. But it’s amazing how many doors have been opened by a genuine-sounding, “Wow, what’re you cooking? It smells  _ amazing _ .”

Which is why he’s pretty damn mad at himself when he finally realizes Charmer’s been doing it to him. He’s not even sure how long it’s been going on, or why he’s surprised. It’s right there in her name, after all: she’s charmed him, and now he’s not sure what he’s let slip without realizing it. Needless to say, he’s a little perturbed.

“Hey, you’re a pretty good shot. Where’d you learn?” That was about a month ago. He’d made something up about shooting with his uncle Ted down near University Point. She’d asked about Ted, and he’d said it was Gif Ted, and had a chuckle at her expense, even as she gave him the look she always did when she was filing something away for future use.

“Gosh, you seem to know an awful lot about synths and the Institute. How did you learn all that with the Railroad? From talking to the...packages?” This was last week, when they were escorting another package to Ticonderoga. They’d been huddled behind a busted wall with the synth between them, his head between his knees, and she’d listened as he ad-libbed a tale about a chatty synth named H7-07 and everything he’d had to say about working as a courser. The real H7-07 wasn’t going to come back and contradict him, after all - not all the way from his farm in the Capital Wasteland.

“That smells great. Who taught you to cook like that?” They’re at Rocky Narrows for the night, huddled around a small fire. Deacon stirs the pot before him. It does smell good. 

Even though he knows what she’s doing he decides to tell the truth for once. What’s it going to matter? She already knows about Barbara. It won’t hurt to tell this one little thing.

Will it?

“My wife, Barbara. When we met, I...well, I didn’t know how to cook.” At this, Charmer raises an eyebrow, and he wonders briefly how he’s already managed to give her more information than he intended. “She was really talented, made the best tato stew I’ve ever had.” 

Charmer nods, smiling slightly. 

“I guess the gang didn’t prepare you for real-life skills like cooking.”

A tingle goes up Deacon’s back. If it were him, he’d use a wrong name for the gang he ran with, just to see if his mark agreed or if he’d catch them agreeing to it. 

“I mean, the ‘University Point Mirelurks’ don’t really sound like amazing chefs.”

Bingo. Got it in one.

He’s so pleased with himself he actually laughs out loud, “Caught you.”

Charmer has the balls to look surprised and a little confused. “Caught me? Caught me what?”

Deacon drops the ladle back against the side of the pot and pulls off his oven mitt, chuckling to himself. 

“You know it was the Deathclaws, right?”

She shakes her head. Either she’s really misremembered the name of the gang, or she’s a better liar than he’s been giving her credit for.

“I thought you said the Mirelurks?” She says it a little too fast. She’s got to be lying.

Right?

Better to hang onto that and not let her know that he knows. He puts his hands up in a placating gesture. 

“Ok, my bad,” he laughs once more, trying to get it out of his system. He’s sure she’s lying. “I just thought you were trying to catch me in a lie again.”

Charmer laughs. It sounds genuine, but then again, most of what she says sounds real. That’s why it’s so hard to catch her.

“Why would I try to do that?”

Deacon leans forward, gripping the ladle between his thumb and forefinger and blowing on the handle to try to cool it enough to grab with his whole hand. When he’s finally able to, he pours two bowls of stew and hands her one. Charmer takes it with a nod and settles back on the cot across from his.

“I guess I just thought, since I told you so many things that weren’t true that maybe you thought I still wasn’t being honest with you.” 

The best offense is a good defense, right?

Charmer laughs again. It’s a nice sound against the chirping of crickets around them. The fire crackles and throws a shadow across her face. 

“Well, you’re right that I’m never sure when you’re telling the truth and when you’re not,” she admits, taking a spoonful of stew and humming in delight. “This is delicious.”

Deacon takes a bite of his own. It’s hot from the fire and savory from the tatos and squash. It could use some salt, but he didn’t remember to bring any. It’s better than Instamash or Cram, though, so he’s not going to complain. Hot food beats that canned shit any day.

“It’s not bad,” he agrees. “It’s better when I have some brahmin to put in it.” 

A nod from Charmer. “I could see that,” she says, taking another bite. “So your wife taught you how to cook?”

“Yeah. She was really good at looking at an empty pantry and somehow making a delicious dinner out of nothing.” He smiles a bittersweet smile and looks into the flames. The memory of the radroach roast she made for his birthday is just for him; he doesn’t want to give it to Charmer to cast doubt on.

“My husband, Nate -” 

Deacon has to try not to gasp; this is the first time she’d mentioned him, the great love of her life. They’ve been traveling together for months now and she’s never spoken of him, let alone said his name out loud. At least, not awake - turns out she talks in her sleep, and he’s learned a  _ bit _ more about Nate than he needed to know that way to say the least. 

“He really loved to grill,” she continues, oblivious to his shock and awe at her sharing. “He’d pick up a couple steaks whenever we had something to celebrate, and when I’d get home they’d be marinating in the fridge next to a six-pack.”

Deacon tries to picture this. A fridge, with steaks marinating next to a pack of beer. It’s easy to imagine the fridge, clean and stocked with food as he assumes all pre-war refrigerators always were. And the beer he can envision - six bottles, labels new and un-ripped, standing proudly in a cardboard case. The refrigerator was probably really cold, even in the summer. He bets when you put your face in it, you could see your own breath. 

It must have been nice to have things like that. He takes another bite of his stew, mulling this. Across from him, Charmer has finished her bowl and set it aside; in her hands is a small flask with the cap off. 

She offers it to him and for a moment, Deacon seriously considers taking it. Then he thinks again of Barbara, of the look on her face with the back of her head missing, and the stew turns to ashes in his mouth. He shakes his head mutely and sets his own bowl aside, forcing himself to swallow.

Charmer takes a swig of her own and looks at him, her eyes opaque. Now there’s a woman who doesn’t need sunglasses to hide what she’s thinking. 

“Where’d you go just now?” 

But he’s shared enough for the evening. “Oh you know, I just took a fun little visit to Nuka-World to ride the coasters.” And then he gives her finger-guns.

Christ, he gives her  _ finger-guns _ ? What the hell is he thinking?

It’s pretty clear Charmer’s not thrilled with him either; she turns from him and begins arranging a blanket and pillow. 

 

* * *

In the morning, Charmer still hasn’t thawed (he smiles at this thought, thinking of where she came from - it must have been damn cold in Vault 111, but surely she’d already thawed from that or she wouldn’t be here? It’s not funny but somehow still is). She packs her things calmly and her face is expressionless, but Deacon knows her well enough by now to know that she’s still pissed at him. 

He’s not getting out of this one so easily. As he sneaks off into the bushes to relieve himself, Deacon debates the merits of telling her the truth versus making something else up. 

She did tell him about Nate, which is a tally in the win column for him. But, on the other hand, he can’t always tell when she’s playing him, which makes him nervous about letting her win one at all. 

When he comes back out, she’s left a bowl of water and a sliver of soap for him. He washes his hands and face quickly and puts his glasses back on. She’s standing on the rocky outcropping that gave the old park its name surveying the road below.

He always forgets how petite she is until he gets close to her. He’s not a big man, but he’s nearly a half-foot taller than her. She doesn’t look at him when he approaches; she’s busy watching a herd of radstags down the road, feasting on new grass. Instead of asking, she reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out his cigarettes and lighter. The radstags don’t notice the flash of flame as she lights her cigarette.

“Was any of it true?” Her voice is calm. Deadpan. There’ll be no figuring out why she’s asking from her tone. Deacon fumbles with the pack of smokes she hands back to him and lights his own. The smoke is hot in his lungs and he muffles a cough. Below, the youngest radstag is sniffing the air as if looking for the smell of their smoke.

“Any of what?” He knows what.

Her voice stays inscrutable. “University Point. The Deathclaws. Your dear, departed wife Barbara.” 

The way she says his wife’s name stings. He swallows. “Most of it.”

“Are you ever going to tell me the whole truth?”

The whole truth. He’s not even sure there is such a thing, and if there is, he’s sure he doesn’t want to tell Charmer. He doesn’t want to know what she’ll think of him if she knows. 

He doesn’t want to know.

“You’re smart,” he says. “You’ll probably figure it out someday.”

At this, Charmer looks him in the eye. He’s not sure how she always manages to do this, to lock on his gaze even from behind his sunglasses, but she does. Maybe all pre-war lawyers could do this kind of thing. 

“Are you just buttering me up? Telling me what I want to hear so I’ll leave you alone?”

“No,” he lies.

She finally cracks a smile. “Ok, asshole, let’s get moving.”


	3. Camouflage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ya'll, I don't know what I'm doing here. I'm just steering into the skid now.

_ camouflage _

_ noun _

_ hide or disguise the presence of (a person, animal, or object) by blending in with the surroundings _

 

Disappearing in plain sight is easier than most people think it is. The trick isn’t to avoid being seen but rather to be seen and immediately dismissed as inconsequential. Deacon has a natural advantage, being a nondescript middle-aged white guy, and he knows it. No remarkable scars, no rare birthmarks. Put a cap or a wig on him and he can turn into a completely different person. A simple change of clothes and he’s a brahmin-herder, a mechanic, a raider. His completely unremarkable look is exactly what’s saved him more times than he can count, even using all his fingers and toes.

It’s something that’s already proven harder for Charmer, unfortunately. She’s shorter than most women, which means from a distance she’s already singular. Up close there’s the distinctive shape of her eyes, the pert tilt to her nose, the way one side of her mouth seemed permanently cocked into a wry smile. The small freckle near her right eye, on the bridge of her nose. 

And all of that’s before she opens her damn mouth and starts talking. In this country over two hundred years and she’s still got an accent, he jokes to himself. 

They’re at Bunker Hill for the night, posing as caravaneers. He’s in his trusty blue jacket and a battered fedora. Charmer’s braided her long hair and looped it into a bun and the worn leather coat she wears over a plain flannel shirt looks like the same as everyone else’s, but one look at her face and he knows anyone who sees her will remember her. 

In a word, she’s just too damn  _ charming _ .

She’s chatting with Joe Savoldi over a glass of whiskey, laughing at some joke the old putz made; he missed it. He was too busy listening to the chatter at the brahmin pen, Trashcan Carla and Cricket talking about something weird they’d both seen up the road. 

He stares down at his own glass, debates drinking the whiskey in it. When he’s sure no one’s looking, he dips two fingers in the liquid, splashes a bit on his neck, and dumps the rest on the ground next to the bar, setting the glass back up before anyone can see what he’s done. 

“You need a refill?” It’s only a moment before Savoldi stands before him, bottle in hand. Deacon lets a loose grin cross his face and he nods. 

“That’d be great, thanks.” The brown liquid sloshes temptingly in his glass. “What a day, huh?”

“Yeah, sure,” Savoldi nods, turning away already to go back to the other end of the bar where Charmer is laughing with a couple other caraveeners. Her hair’s coming loose from its braid, and the smile on her face shows the two perfect rows of teeth that old-world dentistry are responsible for. She takes a drag from her cigarette and sees him looking at her, and the wink she throws him is somehow subtle. 

Deacon pretends to take a sip from his glass to hide his smile.

She may not blend in, but she’s a hell of a good distraction.

 

* * *

“Why do you buy whiskey if you’re not going to drink it?”

That’s the thing about her that always throws him off. Somehow she always sees him, even when he thinks she’s not looking. 

Deacon sighs, rubbing his forehead with his palm. How can she give him such a headache just by asking a question?

But he knows it’s not just that she asked a question - it’s knowing that she was watching him. As it turns out, being watched isn’t so fun after all. 

Payback’s a bitch like that.

When he looks over at her, she’s got that smirk on her face that always makes him want to poke at her, to tease something out of her that he already knows, something she didn’t share with him. It’d be a small victory, but it would sure make him feel better.

Instead he sighs, and decides to go for the low-hanging fruit.

“I don’t like drinking. It dulls the senses, makes it harder for me to pick up on what’s going on around me, pick up on things I need to know.” A partial truth. Safer than thinking about University Point again. 

“There’s more to it than that.” Shit. Well, she was a lawer.

He laughs, putting his hands out. “Honest, counselor.”

At this, she narrows her eyes, brows furrowed together in a doubting smirk. 

And that’s when it hits him: she never told him she was a lawyer before the war. He’s not even supposed to know that she’s pre-war, let alone what she did or where she came from. 

Shit. This is bad. Real bad. He’s not even sure _ how  _ bad. 

Is there any way to spin this that looks good?

“Deacon?” Charmer’s voice matches her expression - it’s stern, like an old-world school marm. 

“Yeah, boss?” He tries to look casual. If he succeeds, it’s all because of his sunglasses, because inside he feels like he’s shaking apart. 

“Why did you call me that?” 

“Call you what?”

“You know what.  _ Counselor _ .” Now she’s exasperated. Impatient.

He takes his hat off, tossing it so it spins in mid-air and lands on top of the dresser next to his bed. She stands, facing him, her arms crossed over her chest. He’s never seen her face so serious; there isn’t even the usual twinkle in her eye.

Say something, Deacon. Say  _ anything _ . 

But for the first time he can remember, his mind is a total blank.

There’s a flash from her lighter; she’s taken a cigarette from his pack and takes a long drag on it before blowing the smoke out towards the ceiling. 

“How long have you known?”

_ Always _ .

“A while,” he admits, loosening his scarf. She tosses the pack of cigarettes onto his bed. He leans over cautiously, as if she might bite him, and takes them. Pulls out one of his own and lights it. 

She seems as jittery as he feels. Her hand seems to shake a little, and then she reaches over and taps the cigarette against the side of the ashtray. No ash falls; the cigarette hasn’t collected any yet. Her cheeks brighten a little and she looks back over at him, her gaze fixed, intimidating.

“I mean, I’m not an idiot,” she continues. It’s one of her more endearing tics, this need to talk when she’s upset. Not that most people don’t want to talk when they’re frustrated or angry; somehow he likes the way she does it, though. “I know you were following me. You knew about the courser after all.”

“And Kellogg.” Shit. What was that? Why’s he helping her nail him to the wall?

“And Kellogg,” she agrees, sucking in a little smoke. When she breathes it back out, it’s in three perfect rings, her mouth a pink circle behind them. He’s impressed; he’s never seen her do that before.

What other hidden talents has she neglected to share with him?

The action seems to calm her; her eyes seem placid when she looks at him again. Or maybe she’s just gotten herself together again. It can be hard to tell; she’s pretty good at hiding her feelings.

“Before that, though,” she says, placing her cigarette in the ashtray. “I noticed you the first time in Diamond City. Then again, outside Daisy’s stall, in Goodneighbor. In the Memory Den. And here - sitting where you were tonight, outside Savoldi’s.”  As she says this, she shrugs off her jacket and pulls her gun from its holster. The pistol she places on the dresser next to the ashtray, then she goes back into her jacket pocket, rifling around for something.

“Probably a coincidence,” he smiles around his cigarette, projecting a confidence he doesn’t feel. She’s too close to the truth, but there’s no way he can tell her. 

At the same time, he finds himself reluctant to tell her a bald-faced lie. Wonder why that is?

“Could be,” she agrees, pulling  her flask from an inside pocket. She twists the top off the flask slowly, looking at him with the expression he’s beginning to associate with cross-examination. She takes a long drink - he hears gulping - and then finally comes back up for air.

“I think,” she begins, tossing the flask onto the bed, “that you don’t drink because of something in your deep, dark past.” She says the last three words with a comical waggle of her fingers, as if talking about ghosts.

“Could be,” he mimics, taking another drag of his own cigarette and crossing the room to put it in the ashtray. He fumbles at the buttons on his jacket. Is it hot in here?

It’s been a long time since lying made him this nervous. 

Charmer sits on her bed and puts one foot in her lap. She starts unlacing her boot, then looks back up at him. “I think you used to drink and lost control and that’s why you won’t touch it now. Tell me when I’m getting warm.”

There’s a thump as her boot drops to the floor and she puts her foot down. Pulls the other one into her lap and starts unlacing the other.

That’s about when Deacon gives up for the night. 

Maybe it’s not worth hiding everything. After all, a little truth is the chewy center of the best lies, right?

“You’re pretty much on fire, boss,” he tells her, hanging his jacket over the window to block the earliest sunlight. It hangs crookedly over the uneven frame. 

Her other boot hits the floor with a muffled thump and she lets out a happy moan at having her feet free. 

He knows the feeling. After walking all day, his feet are tired too. 

“How’d you know it was me?” Deacon sits on the edge of his bed, across the room from hers, and starts unlacing his own boots. He does it differently from her, bent at the waist, his head hanging around his knees, and so she can’t see his grin when he hears her answer.

“Come on. I’d know you anywhere.”

 


	4. Waiting

_ waiting _

_ verb (used without object) _

_ to remain inactive or in a state of repose, as until something expected happens (often followed by for, till, or until) _

 

Deacon is very good at waiting. Well, he should be - he’s not even sure how much time he’s spent waiting for one thing or another. He must’ve spent three years waiting for Charmer to wake up, and that’s just the time he spent on the ridge overlooking Vault 111, fending off mole rats and living off Cram and Blamco Mac ‘n’ Cheez. It doesn’t take into account the time he spent searching and wondering, all the dead ends and blind alleys he turned down before he found the vault at the top of the hill. 

It’s been three days since they left Bunker Hill. They spent one day on the road, then another resupplying and resting at HQ before they headed back out again, this time towards Covenant to see which of the rumors about the place are true. The sun is blinding but the wind cuts when it blows; the day looks warmer than it is. 

Charmer has no skill for waiting; it’s no surprise, really, given that she was asleep for two hundred years. She’s impatient on the road, distracted. She keeps checking her Pip-Boy with a frown. It’s making him anxious, which in turn makes him grumpy. He wishes she would just chill.

“It’s not right around the corner, you know,” he tells her when they stop to take a drink of water. She just frowns at him, which is typical these days. She’s been more than a little distant since that night in Bunker Hill. He wants to tell her more, to explain himself, but the voice in his head that keeps him out of trouble keeping telling him: wait it out. She’ll get over it. She always does.

She trusts him. Despite everything, she somehow still trusts him.

Deacon can be patient.

At his insistence, they give Bunker Hill a wide berth, traveling to the south along the river and taking the long way around Cambridge, following the road towards Sanctuary Hills. It’ll mean spending two nights on the road instead of one, but in the competition between efficiency and the chance of someone recognizing them, he’d rather lose time. 

Well, recognize her at any rate. Whatever she said, he still refuses to believe he’s that easy to pick out of a crowd. She’s always been better at picking him out than the average joe.

The first night is much the same; she keeps to herself, checking her Pip-Boy every so often with a frown, and then goes to bed early. The next day, though, the frost seems to have receded, and by the time they arrive at Mercer Safehouse, they’ve fallen into step together again. 

Clover’s on guard duty when they walk up; despite the raider-style cage armor she wears, he can tell because of her signature golden hair gleaming in the sun. She looks down at them casually from atop the guard tower and lazily asks in her drawl, “Do ya’ll have a geiger counter?”

It’s funny sometimes, being asked these questions by people he knows well, people he trained himself. Still, he’s glad to see someone taking his precautions seriously. 

When he answers with the usual counter-sign, the gate swings open and Clover winks at them, one green eye sparkling as she says, “Welcome back, Deacon. Charmer,” she nods at the other woman. 

“Hi again,” Charmer gives her a terse smile and heads inside. Deacon watches her go, then bars the gate behind them and heads up the guardtower to sit with Clover.

“Trouble in paradise?” The blonde gives him a flirtatious smile. It’s been almost two years since that night, but she hasn’t given up trying for a repeat performance, he mulls as he offers her a cigarette. He lights hers, then his own, as he thinks about how to answer.

“You know me,” he says, smiling around his own cigarette. “Making friends everywhere I go.”

Clover laughs in that way that got him into trouble last time, deep-throated with her head tossed back. 

“It’s nice to see you again.” When she says it, it sounds sincere. 

“We’re just here for the one night,” he says by way of explanation. It does nothing to stop the long narrow fingers she’s walking up his leg. This girl’s an open book. Too easy to read, like one of those large-print books he found on that trip he took to the library a few years back.

“Of course,” she turns to blow her smoke out over the gate, and Deacon is glad to have her eyes elsewhere for a moment. It gives him all the time he needs to stand and shake her off. 

“I’d better head down, start dinner.”

“You’re cooking for us tonight?” This comes from below; looks like Jackpot snuck up on them. Deacon wonders briefly what the old man saw, but he’s inscrutable as always. He’s always liked that about the old gambler; he’s hard to read. 

“Yeah, you know, we picked up some mirelurk and thought we’d have a boil.” He stretches and picks up his pack again. “I think Charmer brought some wine. Figured we could have a little New Year’s party.”

Jackpot grins in that way he has, with the edges of his eyes creased. “I knew I liked that girl.”

“Figured you’d feel that way.” Deacon climbs down the ladder and heads inside.

 

* * *

He breaks his own rules for one night; it is a party, after all, and somehow Deacon knows that with Charmer around he won’t find himself crawling into Clover’s bed again. Against his own better judgment, he trusts her to keep him from doing something stupid like that.

So he has a glass of wine, and then another; his feet and fingers finally grow warm with the help of a mild red. They turn the radio up and take turns on watch duty. Jackpot insists on dancing with each of the “ladies” as he calls them, shimmying with Clover to “Whole Lotta Shakin’ Goin’ On” and giving Calavera a turn to “Keep a-Knockin’”. He even lures Charmer into a dance during “Sixty Minute Man,” which Deacon files away for future ammunition. She moves well, though - maybe all the musicals she performed in paid off.

He sits in a corner with D9-45, who prefers to go by Jerome, and Pinocchio and the runner who showed up halfway through dinner, Hermes. The four of them play spades and bridge and any other card game they can think of, although as the others get more and more drunk, they disperse over time and start towards their beds. It must be nearing midnight when they draw straws for guard duty. Calavera tells the rest of them to fuck off, gives them all a black look, and takes her place to finish watch for the rest of the night.

Sometime after that, Clover gives him a look from across the room, wine bottle in hand. Deacon thinks about it for a moment, then shakes his head at her. With a shrug, she grabs Jackpot’s hand and guides him upstairs. 

It’s nice to know the old man’s getting lucky, Deacon reflects as he adds a couple more logs to the fire. It’s still cold in here, no matter what he does.

He’s starting to come down from his good mood when the couch shifts under added weight; Charmer settles next to him on the loveseat, close enough that their legs touch. It feels friendly; companionable. When he looks at her eyes, it’s clear she’s had more to drink than he realized. She looks both sleepy and wired, a cool feat.

“How’re you doin’ there, buddy?” He watches her as she pulls apart another Mirelurk claw and delicately picks the meat out. One thing you can say about her - she handles her alcohol well.

She lets out a burp, followed by a giggle.

Well, maybe not _always_.

“Do you know,” she begins when she settles down, “that this was my anniversary? Two hundred and ten years ago, I would’ve been married for three years.”

Fuck. That’s probably why she’s been so weird. It didn’t have anything to do with him, and he’s a selfish asshole for thinking it did. Fuck. Fuck fuck _fuck_.

His brain flits for a moment to the sight of her in the cryo pod, icicles in her hair, her face frozen in anger and terror. The glitter of the frost on her eye. He only went inside the vault that one time. No one else stood out, but somehow he’d been drawn to her pod. He’d known even before he checked the records that she was Shaun’s mother.

He can’t think of that now. He tries to focus, but it turns out that when you don’t drink, two cups of wine is a lot. He’s struggling and hate this feeling.

“No, I didn’t.” He’s scrambling. He has to keep her talking. “How’d you meet him?”

A wistful smile crosses her face. “It’s so silly. It’s not even a good story,” she laughs.

“Go on.” Now he’s curious. With everything he learned about her before he ever even met her, it’s not like there’s a record of this anywhere. 

Charmer sets the claw delicately on the end table, giving up on it as too much work. She pours herself a little more wine and offers him the bottle. Deacon means to shake his head, but somehow ends up nodding, and she pours the last couple ounces into the coffee mug he forgot he was holding.

“We lived in the same building. I was in 537 and he was two floors below me in 357. I ordered something and it got mis-delivered. He brought it down.” She laughs again and takes a sip of her drink. “I guess you could say it was love at first sight.”

Not for the first time, Barbara flits through his mind again. It’s hard to believe it’s been twenty-five years since they met. Were her eyes blue or green? He can’t remember.

“I think that sounds like a nice story.” It may be the first completely honest thing he’s ever said to her.

Charmer turns and looks at him. There’s something in the crooked way she smiles that makes him want to hug her, but instead he takes a sip of his drink. Upstairs there’s a loud thump and a giggle from Clover, followed by rumbling baritone murmurs that must be Jackpot. 

“Sounds like they’re having fun,” Charmer laughs. 

Deacon nods. 

“Tell me about your wife.”

“She...well.” He tries to think of something he feels comfortable sharing with someone else. It’s hard enough admitting that she existed. He doesn’t dare get too close to what happened to her. He’s been skating around that forever and still can’t quite process it.

Charmer’s still looking at him, but for the first time since they met, she doesn’t seem like she’s trying to figure him out. There’s something in her eyes that makes him feel safe.

“She loved old movies. I got a projector, and whenever we found an intact holotape, we’d try watching it. Her favorite was  _ The Maltese Falcon _ . Mysteries were her favorites. She wanted to try to figure out the answers before the detective did.” He tries not to think of the way she cried when the holotape wore out, of the way he promised he’d find her another copy. It had been just a couple weeks later that everything went to hell. Another promise broken.

“You really loved her.”

“Well, yeah.” The word is swallowed when he takes another sip of his wine. It’s salty. Why is that?

Deacon touches his cheek and realizes that he’s started crying. When did that happen? He scrubs his cheek under the sunglasses, for once not worrying if he looks cool. 

“I get that,” Charmer says without further explanation. In the other room, Pinocchio lets out a loud snore. 

“It’s been...a really long time. I miss her.” Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Charmer nod, then take another sip out of her water glass. 

“Why Deacon?” It’s hard following the wild twists and turns of her thoughts, but this is definitely a safer topic. 

“I used to have another name, back when I had another face. But I liked the meaning of it. I’m both a servant and a messenger.”

“Everything’s a joke to you, isn’t it?” She laughs, even though none of it’s particularly funny. He turns to ask her why she’s laughing, but the question never leaves his lips because instead, she’s kissing him.

It’s surprisingly chaste. Her lips are softer than he would have thought, if he’d stopped to consider it. They’re warm and tender, lightly flavored with tobacco and wine. Her tongue is tentative, querying at his own bottom lip, and he opens his mouth more to let her in; there’s a sudden surge of adrenaline that ripples from his brain to his extremities, and he wants to reach out to her, to grab her arms and feel her body against his. 

Instead she pulls away and smiles lazily at him. She laughs, running a hand through her hair.

  
“I should get to bed.” She’s gone before he can figure out what happened, around the corner with a shuffling gait that shows him how much she’s really had to drink. He’s left on the couch, a half-drunk mug of wine in his hand and a score of new questions he’s not sure he’ll ever have answers to cluttering his brain. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that happened. Apparently.


	5. Surveillance

_ surveillance _

_ noun _

_ continuous observation of a place, person, group, or ongoing activity in order to gather information _

 

Waiting goes arm in arm with surveillance. If you’re no good at the former, you’ll be even worse at the latter. Like waiting, Deacon has more experience with surveillance than he cares to admit - far more than any other Railroad agent. Before he came above ground, the Institute supplied him with gadgets and toys to help him keep tabs on his targets. Now there’s just this ratty old pair of binoculars with one eye popped out while Charmer holds her .44 and watches his back.

Given what he knows, and what he’s done, he prefers it this way. Better to have shitty equipment than a shitty soul, he figures.

They huddle inside an avocado green Corvega with rust blossoming on one side, slumped in the backseat. He faces Covenant, watching people come and go through the pinhole that still works, his other eye closed against the shattered glass that still lingers in the binoculars. He’ll have to take a break soon; staring through one side like this is giving him a headache.

There’s a tap on his back - Charmer’s hand, warning him to get down - and a rustle as she scrunches down in the seat. Deacon does the same, dropping the binoculars into his lap and pulling a mildewed blanket over him, thinking to himself that he’s just a skeleton and skeletons don’t need to breathe. After a moment, there’s the telltale sound of brahmin hooves in the road, the heavy gait of a packbeast. It feels like a century before he feels another tap and is able to lift his head again, peeking out the rear window through his binoculars.

Now Lucas Miller approaches the front gate. One guard walks level with him. The pack brahmin trails behind them, and behind the lumbering beast comes another guard, holstering his weapon. Over by the gate, Miller and the guy out front in the leather jacket are talking, but this far away Deacon can’t read their lips. It’s probably the usual pleasantries. 

Charmer jabs him in the ribs with one bony elbow. It hurts, but he keeps his eye on the two men up ahead.

“What’s going on?” Her whisper is soft, her hot breath a distraction at his ear. Impatient as she is, watching the gate isn’t easy. Next to him she fidgets. 

“He’s talking to Lucas Miller now. One of the caravan guards is building a fire,” Deacon murmurs, half to himself as he tries to decide what to do. If it was up to him, he’d sit here for days on end, keeping track of who enters and exits and what they’re doing or carrying. Compared to the wait outside Sanctuary, a few days in front of Covenant would be a breeze. 

They’ve only been here a couple hours, though, and he can tell Charmer’s already at the end of her rope. She’s more of a charge in and ask questions type. He prefers to know as much as possible first, but her style does have its perks, especially given how good she is at telling when people aren’t being truthful. 

“So what’s the game plan?” She’s picking at her nails in the dying light, frowning at a cuticle. 

“Well, right now the plan is to keep an eye on what’s happening. Later we’ll figure out what to do with that information, and go from there.”

Over by the gate, Lucas and the guy in the jacket are smoking and laughing about something. Lucas has his back to the car, his shoulder obscuring bottom half of the other guy’s face. 

“So...you brought me all the way out here to sit in the backseat of a car with you?” Even though he can’t see her face, he can tell that she’s teasing from the tone of her voice. What was it he read about pre-war folks and the backseat of cars?

Oh.  _ That _ .

He’s grateful for his sunglasses, for the fact that the setting sun has turned everything it touches a brilliant orange; it’s gotta hide the flush he can feel burning his ears. It’s the closest they’ve come to talking about what happened last night. The whole way here he’s been pretending to himself it didn’t happen. 

Maybe it didn’t. Maybe it was a dream. 

No. It wasn’t a dream.

“Yeah, of course,” he teases back. “Look at the genuine fake leather seats complete with two hundred year-old mold stains. Fascinating.” Pretending to misunderstand her is the only hope he has of avoiding a conversation he’d rather not have. Not now, not while he’s still trying to parse what happened. 

_ Why _ it happened.

Well, no, why it happened is easy. He’s read enough psychology to understand about transference and that’s gotta be kind of like what happened here. It’s not the first time a new recruit has come onto him; it’s how he got tangled up with Clover a couple years ago, and that wasn’t the first time either. And given all the years he’s spent thinking about her,  _ watching _ her, it makes sense that he gave in. 

Familiarity leads to fuzzy boundaries. It’s not the first time. 

“I can’t just sit here staring at this road for a week, Deacon,” she sighs next to him. Before he realizes what’s happening, her hand is on the door handle and she’s started to turn it. He drops the binoculars, scrambling to lean over her and put his hand over hers before she can open the door. 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, where are you going?”

“Just going to take a leak.” She lifts both her hands and gives him a smile. It’s hard to read her but he’s fairly certain it isn’t real.

He lets out a bark of laughter. She had to know he wasn’t going to buy that. Right?

“No you’re not. You’re going to try to go in.”

She sighs again, drops her hands, and rolls her eyes. “Come on, Deacon, we’re never really going to know anything until we get in there anyway. I’ll go in alone and you can watch me the whole time if you want. Whaddaya say?” She waggles her eyebrows comically and for a moment he knows how Desdemona always feels, talking to him.

In the end, though, he relents. “Fine,” he says, releasing the door pull and her hand. “Go on in, see what you can find out.”

The smile she gives him in return is dazzling. “Thanks, friend.” As she opens the door and rolls out of the Corvega, she blows him a kiss. He shakes his head as she shuts the door quietly and stands, making her way to the gate. Leaning with his chest against the seatback, he raises the binoculars to his eyes again, closing the one on the broken side.

She’s just as bad as Glory, he thinks, watching her make her way towards the gate. As much as he doesn’t want to admit it to himself, it’s kind of great watching her walk away.

 

* * *

He’s still in the backseat, wrapped in the dry-rotten blanket, shivering and blowing on his fingers when there’s a noise up the hill, near the gates. Deacon pops his head up, pushing his sunglasses onto his forehead - there’s no one around to see him, anyway.

Three figures come out Covenant’s gate. One of them is Lucas Miller - the big merchant stands against the wall outside the settlement, unzips his pants, and sighs as he pees against the battered wood. Gross. Why do some guys have to pee on everything? Some primal holdover from when everyone was clunking each other in the head with clubs?

It’s the other two men that hold Deacon’s attention, though. They walk up the hill, towards the water. He debates with himself for a moment - Charmer could come back any time and it might be safer to stay put, but he doesn’t want to lose them - and before he can talk himself out of it, he opens the car door and rolls onto the broken pavement below. 

Following them is easy enough, if he sticks to the sandy bank of the small pond. The moon is a sliver and even the stars seem dimmer than usual, but one of them lights a lantern partway down the road, so he’s able to keep a bead on them and let them get farther ahead. The two of them are laughing about something and as he lurks closer, it sounds like a bunch of nonsense.

“Didya hear the last one? ‘Oooh, I don’t play baseball, I play soccer,’” the one on the left raises his deep bass voice to a cracking falsetto while the other chortles.

“They’ll probably send her over to the Compound tomorrow anyway, if she keeps asking questions.” This one, the one on the right, has a heavy step. 

The two of them cut down towards the lakeshore, and Deacon freezes, watching. They turn off their lantern and splash into the pond, not thirty feet away from him. He waits for his eyes to adjust to the darkness, and catches them swimming into one of the huge sewer pipes on the other bank. There’s the sound of a door and then it’s quiet again. 

On his way back to the car, he mulls over what he’s heard, but can’t make any sense of it. Baseball? Soccer? Compound? There’s something about it all that makes him really fuckin’ uneasy, but he can’t make heads or tails of it.

 

* * *

“Working hard, I see.”

Deacon cracks an eye open, grateful for the shade provided by his sunglasses in the bright sunshine. Scrunched next to him in the car is Charmer, a crooked smile on her face and a sandwich in her hand. When she hands it to him, he could kiss - no. No, he couldn’t. That might not be the best idea.

Bad train of thought.

Scrambling to get his head in gear, Deacon takes the sandwich gratefully and takes a big bite, chewing as he tries to figure out what time it is from the quality of the light. Must be nearly noon - he must’ve been more tired than he thought.

“Good?” She’s still looking at him like he’s a wild animal, so he swallows, running his tongue over his teeth to check for any bits of food stuck there. Everything feels good, so he flashes her a smile.

“Great, thanks.” He salutes her with the sandwich. “Thanks for breakfast.”

A nod from Charmer. “So,” she gets down to business. “You’ll never believe how fuckin’ weird it is in there.”

Deacon takes another bite of his sandwich. “Tell me more.”

So she tells him about the test she had to take just to walk in, and the unnerving friendliness of all the citizens. She tells him about how she talked to a visitor, who said a caravan was missing and last seen in Covenant, except the residents all said they’d never seen it. As she goes on, Deacon can feel the hairs on his arms raising; something is definitely wrong here. 

“So, I finally got someone to… _. _ um, talk to me.” Something in her voice makes Deacon look up from his sandwich, an eyebrow arching at the tone. 

“ _ Talk _ to you? Why do you say it like that?”

Usually he has a hard time telling what’s going through her head, but not this time. This time, the blush spreads across her cheeks and up into her ears. It’s pretty clear what she means by talking this time, and it’s so funny Deacon lets out a bark of laughter only slightly tempered by the smack in the arm she gives him, a furious expression crossing her face.

“You sassy little minx,” he crows, for once not worrying about being heard. 

“It’s not my fault,” Charmer murmurs, “She kept making moves on me. It just seemed...easier that way. And it worked.”

“How far did it go with  _ her _ ?” Her eyes narrow and he realizes suddenly that he’s gone too far, crossed some unknown line. It’s not a joke all of a sudden, and he reins himself in, taking another bite of his sandwich. With his mouth full of razorgrain bread and tatos, he can’t insert his foot any more than he already has. He chews and they sit quietly while he tries to figure out a way to take back his teasing. Finally, he swallows with a gulp.

“Look, we’ve all done it at one point or another. Sometimes it’s easier to get information by...flirting -”

“Kissing,” she interjects. “It was just a little kissing.”

“Ok, so, sometimes you can get the information you need through kissing and you don’t need -”

“And maybe a little over the bra action,” Charmer flushes pink again, but this time her mouth quirks up in a smile. Deacon tries not to think about this, afraid his own face will betray his feelings about it, and continues on.

“ _ Sometimes _ ,” he says, vowing to get the sentence out no matter what else she might say, “it’s best to get your information without killing anyone. And that’s what you did. So good job.” He takes another bite of his sandwich and then, through a mouthful, asks, “What’d you learn?”

“It sounds like they take anyone they suspect of being a synth over to this compound across the pond.”

There’s a pinging in Deacon’s head, the feeling of all the pieces sliding into place. 

“I think I know where they are,” he says. His limbs feel loose, his brain light. He knows where this is going and he always feels this way before he walks into a massacre. 

“You do? Great, we gotta get going,” her hand is already on the door handle. 

“Can I finish my sandwich first?”

Charmer sighs heavily and opens the door, taking off before he can stop her. 

  
Guess not, he grumbles to himself, jamming it in his mouth as he pulls his weapon and follows her lead. 


	6. Concessions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick thank you to Margaret Smoke for chatting with me and helping me work out some of where this is going and get a better handle on Deacon as a character.

_concessions_

_noun_

_the act of yielding, as a right, a privilege, or a point or fact in an argument_

 

 

Amelia Stockton is in bad shape when they finally get to her. Deacon’s never seen Charmer so visibly...anything, really. In this case angry, but he’s never really seen her sad or happy before, either. As she fires her gun ten times into Dr. Chambers, the image of her in her cryo pod flits back up, the rage and anguish frozen on her face for an eternity.

She leaves him by Amelia as she blasts her way through the Compound, back the way they came, a violent tempest of grief and bullets. From another tunnel, he hears three loud bangs - grenades? - and the screams of a man, cut short with gunfire. He could stop her, but he knows better. This is something she needs to do, and it’s not like they don’t deserve it.

After an eternity, she returns, her face calm again, her hair wild. There’s a splatter of blood across one of her cheekbones and her pants are caked with it. Under scorch marks and blood, he can’t tell if she’s injured, but she’s moving well.

It’s not the cryo pod he thinks of then. He tries not to, but the brutality - it makes him think of University Point.

Charmer doesn’t look at him but stares past him to Amelia, who cowers in one corner of her cell, grimy and terrified. When she speaks to the timid girl, Charmer’s voice is calm, even sweet.

“Let’s get you home, huh?”

No one argues with that.

 

* * *

 

And so, barely a week after they left, they’re back in Bunker Hill just after suppertime. It took a little convincing, but he finally got Charmer to take off her blood-soaked jacket and leave it a mile outside of town in an old trash can. There’d be no getting it clean, and it was just going to draw attention to them. Her pants, despite being drenched with blood when they left, were quickly covered in dust from the dry roads. They looked no worse than usual, even though they had to be stiff around the calves.

Deacon and Amelia go into town first; Charmer lingers outside, talking to Trashcan Carla for a few minutes before she heads over to Savoldi’s to buy a room for the night. Amelia is overwhelmed to be reunited with her father, and Old Man Stockton gives Deacon a knowing look that answers a lot of lingering questions. He makes a few trades and if the bag of caps Stockton gives him is heavier than it should be, no one will know the difference.

By the time Deacon makes it over to the bar, Charmer’s washed up and changed into some spare clothes. It’s a Saturday night and the place is teeming with caravaneers staying overnight after a healthy market day - combined with the locals, the place is loud, and busy. No one is likely to notice if he says hi to the pretty transient on the other side of a burn barrel. He gets a beer from Joe Savoldi and finds an empty seat next to Charmer.

“Mind if I join you, stranger?” The look she gives him makes it clear she’s humoring him; she knows the words and the volume are for everyone else’s benefit. She nods, and he sits down next to her. She’s sitting very still; this close he can see how tensely she’s holding her jaw. She’ll have a hell of a headache later.

It’d be better - easier - if she’d just talk about it. Of all the ways Deacon’s found to cope with the devastation he’s seen and caused, that’s his favorite.

Even if it’s all couched in lies.

But Charmer doesn’t say anything, just sips her whiskey and stares into the fire. The tight grip she has on her glass reminds him of the swatter he used that day, twenty or so years ago. The satisfying sound the wooden bat made when it met bone. The way the blood trickled into each crack of the pavement after he bashed Ace’s head in, before he turned on Barbara.

He shakes his head, as if that’ll clear out the memories. It doesn’t work - when does it ever? - but he somehow he gets a better grip on himself. He’s Deacon again, not Rascal. Not John D. Not...the person he was before.

 _Deacon_.

Tentatively, without looking at her, he takes one hand off his beer bottle and places it over the hand she has resting in her lap. It’s a risk - someone might see - but with the fire in the burn barrel between them and everyone else, it’s one he feels secure taking. He has to let her know she’s not alone.

Her face is very still, but she doesn’t move her hand away.

 

* * *

 

“Deacon?” From just his name, she can tell she’s drunk.

It’s very late, sometime after midnight. It’s still black outside, though. From the top of the monument, he can’t see much in the blackness, except for a few cookfires or lights kept on by small generators. At the top of Trinity Tower, one white light blinks to a rhythm he can’t quite figure out.

The way she sways, it’s a miracle she made it to the top of the monument at all. He’ll have to be sure to help her get down or else she might ride the stairs like a bumpy slide and curse him all the next day. There’s the perfume of whiskey about her; when she moves next to him, it gets stronger.

He doesn’t blame her, though; he was drunk that day, with the Deathclaws and Barbara, and _still_ tried to drown himself in gin after. Losing it like that -

Charmer’s hand snakes towards him and somehow his heart flutters, only to come crashing back down when he realizes that she’s reaching into his pocket to pull out his cigarettes. He helps her by lighting it for her as she bends her face over the flip lighter, then slides the pack and the lighter back where they came from. Somewhere below them people are laughing, and the radio is loud, Bob Crosby’s smooth voice crooning.

 

 _Though things may look very dark,_  
_Your dream is not in vain_  
_For when do you find the rainbow?_ _  
_ Only after rain.

 

She looks out at the city, her face unreadable again. “Did you ever regret it?”

He likes that he always knows what she’s asking. He thinks again of her face after the massacre, of that splash of blood under one eye. It’s not a question he’s ever asked himself; there didn’t seem to be much point, not once it was already done. When he’d looked around at the bodies, there had never been a moment when he cursed himself and wished he’d done differently. There had been something inevitable about it, he knows that now.

“No,” he tells her, truthfully. “No, I always knew it had to be like that. Did I wish it was different? Sure. But do I have any remorse for my part in it? No.”

Caved in, Barbara’s head had looked like anyone else’s.

“That’s how I feel too,” Charmer says, taking a long drag on her cigarette. If he hadn’t spent the last few weeks with her, he might not believe her; he thinks most people regret bloodshed, even when it’s necessary. But it’s one of the few things she’s said since he met her that seems completely authentic. “I was worried that makes me a sociopath or something,” she gives him a sly grin with that and Deacon can’t help but laugh.

“Come on, let’s go back down to the party.” He puts his arm casually around her shoulders to steer her down the stairs, trying to make it seem like he’s just being friendly when really he doesn’t want her to topple down the stairs and crack her skull.

At ground level, he untangles his arm from her shoulder before they step out of the safety of the stone structure and into crowd. In the cover of the monument, she leans forward, up on her tiptoes. His stomach drops, flattening like a pancake against his bowels. Her lips graze his cheek and are gone before he can really register them.

“Thanks. You’re a good friend.”

She’s gone into the crowd before he can figure out what’s happened. When he sees her again, she’s at the bar, half-empty glass in her hand and her arm around the waist of a pretty caravaneer with short dark curls. She leans close into the other woman, her mouth inches from her ear, and he wonders for a moment if she really is a sociopath, although he’s not entirely clear on the actual medical definition of the term. A moment later, the two of them are laughing about something and Charmer glances over the woman’s jacketed shoulder and catches his eye.

She turns back to the seated woman and kisses her dark lips, a soft brush that  turns into more and sends a jolt down Deacon’s spine. He’s sure she didn’t see him at all and is kicking himself for all the thoughts that are definitely not running through his head when she pulls away and meets his eye again. The wink she throws him - and the mocking smile that goes with it - are definitely not imagined.

He gives up on the party then - in this din, he’s not going to learn much anyway - and climbs the stairs to the room they rented earlier.

 

* * *

 

Morning is brutally cold, but what else would he have expected in the Commonwealth in January? When Deacon gets up, it’s clear Charmer’s bed hasn’t been slept in; the sheets and blankets are still folded neatly at the end as they were when he first came in the night before.

It looks like she found a new coping mechanism, he laughs to himself as he laces up his boots. Well, good for her. Life’s so short and dangerous, it’s nice that she found a way to forget herself for a night. It’s not as if he’s never done that.

Still, somehow, he feels a little sick thinking about it.

Charmer’s at the burn barrel when he gets down there, roasting something on a skewer. Another skewer sits on the stool beside her, charred flesh releasing white steam into the cold air. When she sees him, her eyes light up. How can she look so good, so calm after the night she had?

There’s no time to wonder at it, though; they’ll need to head back to HQ today to report in. Des will definitely be curious to hear about Covenant. He sits at the bar, his back to her, and Tony brings him a mirelurk omelette that’s only a little runny, and he tries not to think about everything he’s learned about her.

 


	7. Misinformation

_misinformation_

_noun_

_false or misleading information_

 

“I heard a rumor about a settlement that got wiped off the map.” Desdemona’s voice is steady. She’s trying to avoid giving away too much and, as usual, failing. Maybe they’ve just known each other too long, but he can read her like a book. For all her strong points - and they are legion - she has so many tells when she wants information he could practically write a book on them.

Right now, for example, she’s fidgeting. One of the easiest ways to tell when Des wants to know something but doesn’t want to ask outright is to watch her leg. If she sits down, crosses her leg and shakes it, that’s a dead giveaway that she’s dying to ask a question but also afraid to know the answer.

A well-placed lie might not be a bad thing here.

He doesn’t have a chance to give it to her, though, because she continues on as if it’s unimportant, a faint smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

“No matter,” she charges ahead. “I hope you two don’t need long to rest because we need to head out to Mercer Safehouse. Drummer Boy brought the news this morning. They’ve finished building the relay. Tinker Tom and I will be traveling with you so we can see Charmer off for ourselves.”

 

* * *

 

The next two days pass in a flurry. Again, they take a wide path around Bunker Hill, going through Cambridge instead. They take a road back to the east again, and cross the Tucker Memorial Bridge. It’s a long trip, but they manage it in one day, walking from before the sun comes up until well after it goes down. Desdemona is impatient, rushing them, and Tinker Tom is anxious, squinting at everyone and everything like a mole rat made human. They’re not exactly unremarkable, and it makes Deacon uneasy, knowing how much their little band stands out on the roads.

Calavera’s on watch when they walk up. “Any of you motherfuckers have a geiger counter?” She calls down, gun trained on them, spotlights spinning in their eyes. With her dark hair and scarred face, Deacon can’t imagine anyone giving her a hard time. Charmer, true to form, laughs a little when she gives the countersign. There’s a long moment where Calavera seems to be considering whether to admit them, and then she does.

At least he convinced Des to use a fake name when they arrive at the safehouse. She introduces herself as Titania and says she’s new, and no one has any reason to doubt her. Why would they? None of them have ever met her; they don’t even know where HQ _is_ , let alone anything about Desdemona.

Compartmentalization was one of his better ideas, he thinks as he sets his bag inside at the foot of one of the mattresses. It’s probably time to change the sign again. He’ll have to think of something innocuous but still unlikely to be said to a stranger. Always a fun exercise.

Desdemona and Tinker Tom go to bed; Tom in particular is tired from the long trip, and no surprise, given how little time he normally spends above ground. Deacon, unable to sleep, takes over Calavera’s watch, earning a rare smile from her in the process.

He watches the road, and then gazes off into the distance, looking out for movement. The moon is larger tonight and the stars seem especially bright; visibility is good. Every time he turns around, he can see the massive relay in the center of camp, the satellite pointed at the sky. Just the sight of it makes him want to be sick. What if it isn’t safe, and Charmer’s disintegrated into a pile of goo, no different from old gum? What if she’s disintegrated into nothing?

What if it _is_ safe, and she makes it to the Institute and is murdered on the spot by a Gen-2 with a laser pistol?

What if it’s safe, and she makes it to the Institute and -

He doesn’t want to think about what she might find there. When she goes through their terminals, who knows what she’ll find about him? She may not know his old name but she’s smart and she’s good at connecting the dots. He has not doubt that if she reads the records about him, she’ll figure it out.

He’s never been in a position where someone knows more about him than he knows about them. While he may not be there yet, he can see it coming and the very thought of it makes him dizzy and nervous.

Is this how everyone feels around him? If so, no wonder he’s not popular.

There’s a groan of timber as someone comes up the ladder to sit beside him in the guard tower. Charmer’s head pops up, a knit cap covering the top. She smiles when she sees him, but he can see it’s for show; the smile doesn’t reach her eyes. She bears a thermos in one hand; when he opens it, there’s hot tato soup inside. One sip and he can feel his insides growing warm already

While he sips his soup and tries not to think, Charmer settles in the seat next to his. She’s wrapped in a green knit blanket. No weapon, and she looks like she just woke up. Sloppy.

“You know, I love the company, but you really shouldn’t go up on a guard tower unless you’re armed,” he tells her, but before he can finish, she flashes her pistol at him under her blanket. He nods, rewards her with a smile.

“I stand corrected.” He takes another sip of soup.

“Couldn’t sleep?” She’s looking at him in that way she has, as if she’s evaluating him. He avoids the eye contact, choosing to look instead at the distance. He is supposed to be on watch, after all. It’s a perfectly good reason to avoid looking back at her.

He nods. “Plus I figured Calavera might be happy to have a night off.”

“She’s a...little scary,” Charmer volunteers.

Deacon tries to stifle a laugh and it comes out as a snort. “This from the woman who slaughtered an entire settlement with nothing but a pistol and a handful of grenades.”

She blushes. Looking at the pink hue of her cheeks, Deacon decides he likes it. He likes knowing he made her blush. She catches him looking at her, and lets out a small, nervous-sounding laugh. In a moment, they’re both giggling like a pair of schoolgirls and Deacon’s forgotten his uneasiness.

“So you’ll finally see your son tomorrow,” he says when they sober.

“Yeah.” She sounds wistful. It’s killing him knowing what she’s going to find if she makes it there safely. If she isn’t killed when she steps out of the relay.

He sips at his soup, watching the horizon. Everything out there is still and silent. Behind them, the house is quiet, all the lights dimmed. He’s glad everyone’s behaving themselves with Desdemona visiting. Even if they don’t know she’s the boss, it makes him look better not to have them drinking and carousing at all hours.

“He’s not going to recognize me.” Charmer’s voice is small, hushed in the quiet around them.

“No, probably not.”

“Did you ever want children?” She’s not looking at him. Instead she has a locket in her lap, silver. Probably was worth something back in the day. It’s closed so he can’t see the pictures, and she’s twirling the chain between her thumb and forefinger as if the motion is the only thing keeping her grounded. As his eyes adjust, he can see a scrollwork pattern around the outside.

Deacon sighs. He’s almost fifty. Kids would’ve been great, but it’s too late for him. With the life he lives, he’d be a terrible dad anyway. Kids should have somewhere safe to grow up, with a solid roof and a warm bed and enough to eat.

“There was this synth about five, six years ago,” he tells her. “Young guy, or at least he looked like one, and they’re all pretty _new_ when they get out. Dark hair, had a chin kind of like mine. Shape of his eyes reminded me of - my wife. Called himself Anthony. We sent him out west, towards New Vegas, on a caravan. Every time I looked at him, I thought about how maybe he could’ve been mine, if he’d been human.”

When he turns back, she’s looking at him, tears brimming her eyes.

“You’ve missed out on so much.” It’s not a question.

“Maybe,” he sighs again. “But I’ve also done a lot of things that I’m proud of. I’ve helped a lot of synths and...well, a lot of _people_. I’m not unhappy with my life. I’m making things better, a little bit at a time, and -”

That’s why he left the Institute. He stops himself before he says it, though.

He’s still not ready to share everything.

“You haven’t told anyone else about this.”

“About what?”

She pauses, thinking. “About...Anthony.”

He shakes his head. “No. It’s silly, but that’s why I sent him so far away. I couldn’t bear thinking of a courser coming after him.” In the cold, his breath clouds up in front of him. It feels good to let a little of this out. He feels lighter, somehow. “Made sure Amari gave him some good memories first, too. Happy family, that sort of thing.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Charmer smile. When she shifts in her seat, her leg bumps against his. It’s not unpleasant.

“You cared about him,” her voice has a teasing note to it.

Deacon tries to avoid frowning. He remembers A8-95 - Anthony - mopping in the stairwell in front of Robotics. Remembers Zimmer and Ayo walking through, knocking over the bucket and not even acknowledging it, too caught up in their schemes. The defeated look on A8-95’s face as he propped the bucket back up and began cleaning up the spilled water.

The way little Liam Binet was the only person who stopped, offered to help. The look on his dad’s face, as if Liam had asked a can opener if it needed help.

The way he felt like less of a person just watching that sort of thing, every day.

“Hello? Earth to Deacon, you there?” Charmer snaps her fingers in front of his face and he starts.

“Sorry ‘bout that, guess I was more tired than I thought,” he shifts in his seat, tries to focus on the horizon.

“Yeah, guess so,” she says softly, not taking her eyes from his face.

“Just so you know…” he turns to her. “I hope you find everything you’re looking for in there.”

She smiles a little, in that crooked way she has, with the left side higher than the right. But then, she doesn’t know what it costs him to try to be okay with the fact that she’s going in there.

“Thanks, Deacon.” She shivers in the cold and yawns; he can feel the blanket against his arm. “I should probably try to get some sleep. Tomorrow’s a big day.”

“Yeah, alright,” he gives her a steadying hand as she climbs down the ladder and out of the guard tower. “Have a good night,” he calls down.

“You too,” she says back, turning to the house.

“Thanks for the soup,” he calls after her, trying simultaneously to be heard and not wake anyone sleeping inside. She just waves one hand as she goes in, and he settles back in his seat to stare off into the distance.

 

* * *

 

When Deacon wakes in the morning, it’s to the sound of thunder outside. He stirs, yawns, puts on his sunglasses. He can’t find his jacket, so instead of scrounging around, he pulls the wool blanket from his bed and pads outside to the porch.

The bright flashes he’d assumed were lightning turn out to be coming from the relay. He must have slept later than he meant to - Charmer already stands on the platform, hair neatly braided, dressed in a nondescript flannel shirt and threadbare jeans, her .44 in its holster.

She looks exposed up there, by herself. Around her, the agents are clustered, Tinker Tom at the control panel. The lines of worry on Desdemona’s face are thrown into sharp relief with every blue-bright flash. Their fearless leader looks...worried. As well she should be - they’ve never been this close to getting someone _into_ the Institute. Really, they’ve had no contact with anyone in there at all; all the messages they’ve received have been one-way.

He wonders what she’ll find down there. Wonders how much it’s changed in the last quarter-century.

She’s facing the road, scanning the people assembled in front of her. From up at the guard tower, Pinocchio waves at her and she gives him a small nod. His youthful face creases in a smile, skin white against his dark skin.

Charmer’s keeping her face carefully neutral but all that stops when she sees him on the porch. A real smile flits across her face, gone almost as soon as it appears, but Deacon knows it’s for him. Maybe it’s the wink that goes with it, but something about that brief smirk makes him feel warm inside.

Moments later, with a crack so loud he’ll have trouble hearing until late that afternoon, she winks out of existence. Deacon’s stomach drops; he remembers the one time he rode the relay, the day that he fled. He’d been sick afterwards, throwing up in a trashcan off and on for an hour. It was a miracle no one stabbed him to death - he’d been useless for weeks after he made it to the surface.

He stands there, huddled in his blanket, long after everyone else disperses. Desdemona gives him a look, then climbs the two stairs and crosses the porch to stand next to him. Something about having her there makes him feel less lonely.

“She’s going to be okay. If anyone can survive down there, it’s Charmer.” It’s such a cliche thing to say, or it would be if it wasn’t true. Somehow, it makes him feel better.

Deacon looks up at the wintry sky.

“Tinker Tom and I will be heading back to HQ tonight,” Desdemona continues, her voice low. “I think you should stay here and wait for Charmer. She knows to come here first instead of reporting back to HQ. I also -” she pauses to clear her throat.

One of her tells. She’s about to tell him something he’s not going to like.

“I gave her a new sign and countersign. Just in case.”

No need to explain what they’re protecting against.

Deacon nods. “Got it, boss. Any idea what the ETA is on a return trip?”

“No. It doesn’t look like we need anyone here to man the relay, though, as long as we leave it in standby mode”

“How long should I wait?”

The look she gives him says she knows more than he realized, and her voice is kinder, less strident than usual. “As long as you need to, Deacon.”

He swallows, tries to sound casual. “Sounds good. I could use a little R ‘n’ R.”

Des looks amused. “Glad to hear it. Well,” she stands straighter, as if putting an invisible boss hat back on. “We need to get ready to go. And Deacon?”

“Yeah, boss?”

“Get them to shape up around here, alright? Don’t just sit on your ass.” Des disappears into the house and Deacon grins to himself.

  
No ass-sitting, just indefinite waiting. Check.


	8. Observe

_ observe _

_ verb _

_ to regard with attention, especially so as to see or learn something _

 

Deacon wakes in a sweat every night, seconds away from screaming. The nightmare is always the same: the feeling of his swatter in his hands, the ground rolling unevenly under his feet, the smell of gin. The crunch of Barbara’s skull under the wooden bat, the way everything shattered.

Maybe nightmare isn’t the right word for reliving that awful day down at the Point, but it’s the closest one he has.

The dream always starts with her voice. The sound of her talking, laughing with someone he didn’t know. He’s standing outside, blood on his boots, feeling triumphant. He’d shown the Deathclaws, had taught them they couldn’t spread dangerous rumors about synth replacements around town with no repercussions. Her laugh is pretty, drifting on the breeze through the open window like wind chimes. He wonders to himself who she’s talking to, why the calm, detached cadence of their voice sounds so familiar.

Something stops him from walking in, though. And standing outside in the dark spring evening, the air heavy with humidity, he hears her say the words that would change his life.

“You can report back to Father that I’ll have him neutralized and ready to return to his programming duties at  the SRB before the end of the month.” 

He has to be imagining this; Barbara doesn’t know anything about the Institute. She’s from County Crossing, for crying out loud. She can’t be an Institute spy. 

This can’t be happening. 

The dream skips the next part, the conversation he hears that confirms everything, conveniently laid out for him as if it were planned. It fast-forwards through the door opening, and through Deacon hiding in the bush and waiting until the other synth is gone. It hops over the way he walked in, furious, demanding answers, too angry to think straight. 

No, the dream goes right to the heart of it, to her crying, trying to explain. To the way her voice quavered when she begged him to please,  _ please _ just let her go and she would never come back. To the way he knew that if he did, they’d just send another one after him. The dream lingers on the way he asked her if she’d ever loved him and the cold look she gave him, the sniff she gave when he started to cry. The way the tears were hot on his face; they burned. 

He’d been young, just a kid. He’d trusted her. 

He’d loved her.

He  _ still  _ loves her.

The dream savors the way the bat felt in his hand, even though consciously Deacon is horrified when he thinks of how smooth the wood was. It teases him, drawing out the moment she turned, hand on the door, ready to run. The way he swung, putting his whole weight into it, and the way his whole life ended in the moment that the bat connected with her head. 

Deacon sits up, eyes unfocused, sweltering despite the cold of the safehouse, terrified of what Charmer might learn about him. Terrified of what she’ll think. 

 

* * *

 

The first week, Deacon throws himself into fixing things up around the safehouse. He adds barbed wire to the top of the walls near the road, fixes the finicky turret that sometimes goes off when the stream is heavy with run-off. There’s dinners to prepare and he even starts fermenting some razorgrain so they can figure out a way to brew their own beer. That’ll improve morale, he figures. At the end of the week, Jackpot and the package leave for the next stop.

In the second week, the nightmares get worse, so instead of sleeping, he takes more overnight watches. Even Calavera starts to give him the occasional smile, eerie as it is with the scars that extend from both sides of her mouth almost to her ears. Early in the morning, after he’s relieved from watch duty, Deacon packs up some things and heads towards the river to hunt mirelurks. Most days he’s successful, and after a midday nap - the dreams don’t come in the day - he freezes the meat in blocks of ice made from purified water, and stores everything in the boathouse. It’s reassuring to know the agents here will eat well when Charmer returns and he can move on.

The third week it rains and hails and when he goes outside Deacon can’t seem to warm up until the next morning. Instead he spends his days inside, listening to the same songs over and over again on the radio and feeling like he’s going to crawl out of his skin. Jackpot returns, this time with a new package and a surprise - Glory’s with him. The sight of his old friend is almost more than Deacon can handle, though he greets her with little more than a nod.

He’s standing on the porch, having a smoke - the first week he was here, Clover primly asked him to keep his smoking  _ outside _ \- when Glory comes back out. He’d know her heavy bootsteps anywhere, and when she comes to stand next to him, he shoots her a tense, tired smile.

“Worried ‘bout your girl?” Glory’s never been one to beat around the bush.

“Nah,” Deacon lies. “She’ll be fine down there. I’m sure she’s just learning everything she can so we’re better equipped when she makes her way back out.”

“That or she’s defected, decided to stay with her son.” 

“Thanks for that. That’s really what I want to think about.” He gives her a sideways look. Glory’s smirking at him; it’s the closest he ever sees to a smile on her. 

“Come on, you’re not worried, are you? Tough guy like you?” 

“Of course not,” he takes a drag on his cigarette and gestures at the frozen mud in front of them, at the junk wall with its curling barbed wire, at Pinocchio sitting in the guard tower under a sheet of scrap and huddled in a blanket. “Who would give up all this for three square meals, a soft bed, and hot water? No, she’s _ definitely _ coming back.”

Above them, the rain beats hard on the repaired roof; the hail sounds tinny when it hits the tin Deacon secured over the worst holes the week before. The relay looks forgotten in the courtyard before them, one light blinking slowly and mud splattered on the platform.

“That’s not exactly how I remember things,” Glory says softly. “But then again, I wasn’t on the ‘right’ side of things down there.”

He’s always wondered if she remembers him from before. He’s always wanted to ask her - does she remember him? Does she know him? It’s been thirty years since he first saw her training in the SRB, shiny leather coat and sunglasses covering her eyes. He was a different person then, with a different name and a different face, but still -

There’s something in her tone that tells him yes, she does. 

“I don’t blame you,” she says, turning to look back at the junk wall. Deacon’s grateful; it’s easier to talk about this without having to look her in the eye. “It’s the way you were raised. You didn’t know any better.” She lets out a deep sigh, as if she’s been carrying this around forever.

“How’d you know?” For this he gets another smirk.

“You’re not as crafty as you think you are,” Glory teases. “But really, it was your voice. All the time you spent changing your face and your clothes and you always sound the same.”

Well, shit. He never really thought about that one before. For a moment he’s embarrassed. Has he always been easier to read than he thought?

“She’ll be back soon.” There’s a cold breeze and Glory shifts away from the smoke suddenly pointed straight at her. “She won’t be happy down there.”

“You really think so? I mean, it’s more like what she’s used to.” He crushes the cigarette out against the porch rail, making a soot mark on the peeling paint.

“Yeah. I don’t see her staying down there with those fucking monsters.”

“But her son -”

“I heard all about that,” Glory interrupts. “She’s still not going in for slavery and murder, you heard her. She’ll be back.”

Deacon wishes he could be so confident, but he keeps thinking about the sound of Father’s voice over the loudspeaker. The anguish on Charmer’s face when she left the Memory Den. The quaver in her voice when she settled on the barstool in the Third Rail and asked Charlie for a bottle of vodka, and then another one. The way she drank until she blacked out and then collapsed in an alley in Goodneighbor. 

The way she almost died, murmuring his name over and over again as Deacon carried her back in to Dr. Amari, begging her to resuscitate the vault dweller. 

“You’re not going to tell anyone about -”

“No, of course I’m not going to tell anyone, don’t be stupid.” The look she gives him is exasperated. “I think you’ve spent enough years proving your worth around here.” Deacon lets out a sigh of relief. If anyone had a right to fuck him up over his past, it’s her. He feels lighter somehow, knowing this. Maybe there’s something to this honesty thing, he mulls as they go back inside.

Clover looks up from the card game she’s teaching the package when he grabs her by the arm, the smile on her lips like a come-on. They go upstairs, scattering cards as they go, and Deacon spends the rest of the frigid, rainy afternoon distracting himself between her thighs.

 

* * *

At the end of the fourth week, Deacon can’t wait anymore. The safehouse is too cramped for so many people with K0-14 waiting for pickup and Clover giving him flirtatious looks every time he turns around. With a heavy sigh, he fills his pack and gives Jackpot the sign and countersign in case Charmer shows up. The old man agrees to send word to the closest dead drop if she does, and promises to keep her from leaving if she returns.

The day that Deacon leaves is unseasonably warm; it feels like spring. He changes out of the raider armor he wore at the safehouse and leaves it upstairs for the next person who comes through. He takes a small amount of rations, figuring he should plan for at least one and maybe two nights on the road, depending on what he hits on the way. 

He’s figuring he’ll head up to Sanctuary while he waits for her to reappear - with the ties she has there, it’s a safe bet she’ll head back there if she doesn’t want to see him. He can’t shake the nagging feeling that she  _ knows _ and that’s why he hasn’t seen her. 

He needs to explain.

The skies are clear and visibility is good. Deacon turns right; he’ll take the road to the west before hitting Concord and go north there. He’s in no rush; maybe he’ll stay at Starlight for the night. He hears they’ve got some traders set up there, maybe someone in one of the caravans will have some news about Charmer. She stands out enough in the Commonwealth that if she’s back, someone somewhere will have noticed.

He’s passing Covenant when there’s a loud boom from just outside the settlement’s walls. A plume of smoke soars up, marring the blue sky, and then he hears a stream of creative, filthy words echoing across the water. He stands still in the road for a moment, trying to decide if he wants to investigate The smarter thing - the safer thing - would definitely be to continue up the road, on his original route. 

Instead he turns, heading back towards Covenant, dropping into a crouch and drawing his weapon as he goes.

Up close, Deacon can see the reason for the smoke still billowing into the sky - the Corvega he used for cover some weeks back sits on its side, just off the road, its metal glowing red with heat and flames licking out of the rear. He stares for a moment, stunned, and then detects movement to his left.

Standing between the gates of Covenant is Charmer, her gun held casually to one side. She looks smaller than he remembers her, although it may just be the heavy coat she’s wearing. He turns to her, takes two steps, and freezes when he finds her pistol trained on him. 

His brain goes blank. What’s the new sign he’s supposed to use?

“I’m a little blue today,” he begins, taking a step towards her. When he hears the safety click off, he freezes. “Any idea how I could cheer up?”

Charmer stands, stock-still, as if debating with herself. In his chest, Deacon’s heart is beating so loud he’s sure she could probably hear it if it weren’t for the rushing sound of the fire down the hill. 

“You could moon someone,” she says after what feels like a year. She lowers the gun a little, enough so that he feels okay about taking another few steps towards her, and eyes him warily. She gestures at him, waving him inside, and he takes his time, keeping his hands up where she can see them. The gates creak shut behind them, and Charmer bars them from the inside. There’s new turrets clicking from atop the walls, and while he can still see dark spots where some of the settlers died, there’s no sign anywhere of the bodies. 

She’s been here awhile; must be at least one week, maybe two.

Which means she knows. She has to.

Any doubt about that is cast aside completely when he feels the jab of her .44 under one rib. 

“Why don’t we go inside somewhere and have a seat.” Although she’s behind him, he can see her gesturing to the last house on the left. Deacon puts one foot in front of the other, taking small steps up the hill and into the quaint yellow house. Inside, she pats him down, reaching into his pockets and emptying them of cigarettes, lighter, caps, bullets. His gun she unholsters and puts in her own pocket. She directs him to sit on one of the three neatly-made beds in the main room of the house. 

Charmer stands across from him, leaning against the wall. Her face is still, perfectly neutral. Not for the first time since they met, he wonders again what she’s thinking.

“Not much of a warm greeting,” he says finally. Someone’s gotta break the silence.

Charmer arches a brow at him and lowers the gun a smidge.

Progress.

“You knew what I was going to find there.” He nods; it’s not a question. “You have a lot to explain.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Those of you waiting for answers (*cough cough* boomslang *cough*) should be a little happier now, yes? :)


	9. Seduction

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to wait till tomorrow (Tuesday) to post this and then I thought, nah. Unlike Deacon, I am not a patient person, and it goes well as a part two to the chapter before it.
> 
> In case you can't tell from the title, this chapter has some explicit material. If that's not your cup of tea, a clean version can be found at FFN.

_seduction_

_noun_

_a tempting or attractive thing; something that attracts or charms_

 

Deacon’s first instinct, of course, is to lie. Even with the trust she’s shown by not shooting him on sight, the habit of prevaricating is ground in. His first impulse is always to make something up, something as far from the truth as possible. He knows better than to do it with Charmer and yet -

She knows better, too; she doesn’t give him a chance. Before he can open his mouth to spout some primo bullshit, she starts asking questions. This must have been what it was like for her, before the war.

“You knew what I was going to find in there.” Her tone is flat, not accusatory, not angry. Strangely devoid of feeling.

“Yeah.” The admission makes him uncomfortable, more so when she starts enumerating his falsehoods and omissions.

“You knew about...Shaun. Father. My son.”

“Yeah. We all did...in there. We knew he came from a vault, Vault 111. In the course of my…work, I discovered that someone else might still be inside.” Her brow arches and for a moment he thinks she’ll pursue this, but no - she starts pacing, gun held nervously at her side.

“And you used to work in the SRB.”

“In programming. My job was to - well, I was supposed to help them blend in. The trench coats and sunglasses weren’t really - well, you see how well that turned out.” Oh shit, he’s babbling. He needs to stop.

“Why did you leave?” She stops, looking at him carefully. The implication is that she’ll know if he’s lying.

“I think you can figure that one out.”

“I want to hear it from you.”

He sighs, fidgeting in his seat. The truth always feels awkward when said out loud. After so many lies, it can be hard to sound genuine. “I started to see them - the synths - as people. I didn’t want to be a part of _that_ anymore. It wasn’t right.”

Charmer begins pacing again, her free hand lightly smacking her denim-covered leg.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

At that, he lets out a humorless laugh. “Come on! Why would I tell _anyone_ about that? Everyone would assume I was some sort of spy. No one would trust me.”

“And how do I know _you’re_ not spying and reporting back?”

Barbara again, the wall of their kitchen spattered with blood. The way she made him love her. He realizes he’s clenching his fists and makes a conscious effort to uncurl his hand. It’s difficult, but he manages.

Charmer has stopped pacing again and is studying him intently. He wishes he could see past her eyes; they’re as good a barrier as his own sunglasses.

“How do I know you’re not? Now that you’ve been down there and found your son, maybe you’re gonna flip.” His tone is too casual. From the look on her face, she knows he’s scared.

“Answer the question, Deacon.”

“I guess you don’t,” he finally says. “It wouldn’t be the first time they sent someone up here to spy. I wouldn’t be the first to try to infiltrate the Railroad, even.”

“Do any of the others know? Desdemona, Doc Carrington, Glory?”

Deacon forces his fists to unclench again. He’s hasn’t been so tense in years. “Glory,” he spits out.

“Glory? Really?” She’s still looking at him critically, but now she sets the gun down on a dresser.

“I’d really appreciate it if you wouldn’t tell Des. She’s not as _understanding_ as Glory is.”

At this, one side of Charmer’s mouth quirks into a smile.  “No, I suppose she wouldn’t be.”

She doesn’t know the half of it, Deacon thinks. If she knew about Sam -

But no, he wouldn’t tell her about that. His own secrets aren’t the only ones he’ll keep.

The bed sags a little as Charmer sits next to him. Her hands are still nervous; she’s bouncing the palms against her knees as if she doesn’t know how to calm herself. He turns to her, planning to put a hand on her shoulder and ask if she’s okay, to ask how she’s handling the news of her son, but instead one of her hands lands on his shoulder. It sits there for a moment, alien and anxious, before her fingers curl into the lapel of his jacket, pulling him to her.

She’s kissing him, or he’s kissing her; he’s not sure how it started of if it was an accident. He’s not sure this isn’t another tactic to get him to spill everything he knows; if so, it just might work. Her lips are soft, welcoming. This close she smells like soap and gunpowder. She turns her head, offering him more access to her lips even as she moves her body closer to his. His sunglasses pinch the bridge of his nose.

He should pull back. He should stop this now before it gets out of hand, but instead he reaches up and pulls the shades off, letting them drop to the floor beside them as his hand reaches up to tentatively stroke her cheek. The skin is smooth - say what you will about the old world, but they just made ‘em _softer_ back then - and she lifts her chin, allowing him to run his fingers through her silky hair. His hand makes its way to the back of her head and he holds her head still as he moves away from her lips to trail kisses down her neck to her collarbone.

Charmer lets out a moan, head tilted back, and runs one of her hands down his arm, squeezing gently at the bicep. He takes this as a sign, and leans into her, nuzzling her neck and nipping at her earlobe. At this, she giggles and pulls back a little.

She’s never looked directly into his eyes before. He’s taken off his sunglasses to sleep, or to wash his face, but she’s always politely looked away, somehow instinctively knowing he doesn’t want to be seen. She’s always respected his need to disguise his vulnerability. But not now - now she looks at him as if she’s never really seen him before.

Somehow he likes it.

“Their computer said you were dead. That you died in a fire.”

If he thinks about it, he can smell their shack burning; the sickening roast meat smell of Barbara’s body and the more chemical tang of their various electrical items popping and melting in the heat. More than twenty years, and when he closes his eyes, he can still see the flashes of flame. The heat of the structure burning like a pyre. Greasy black smoke billowing everywhere he poured the accelerant.

“I guess -” Charmer’s hand silences him, her fingers across his lips.

“I don’t want to hear any lies. Not right now.” Her eyes, inches away from his own, finally seem to be telling him something. Under the thick lashes, her irises are so dark he can’t tell where her pupils end. They’re bottomless, a universe of longing.

So Instead he kisses her fingers, his lips tentative even though she closes her eyes and sways. It’s been so long since he wanted a woman the way he wants her; every woman since Barbara has just been one distraction after another..

Charmer opens her eyes again, fixing him with a glare that’s immeasurably softened by the naked yearning in her hands as she works the buttons on his jacket loose. She slides the rough denim off his shoulders with hands that seem to quiver whenever they touch him. He does her the same favor; taking his lead from her, he unzips the heavy coat she picked up somewhere, slipping it to her shoulders and allowing her to wriggle out of it. It slithers off the bed behind her to land on the floor, forgotten.

Deacon stares at her for a moment, trying to memorize every detail about her. There’s that freckle on her nose, near her eye, the one that he always thinks is a speck of dirt. Her hairline is crooked, like her lips. Her nose is flat, broad, her skin like porcelain - albeit porcelain smudged with a bit of dirt.

He knows she’s older than she looks - much, _much_ older - but suddenly he feels ancient next to her with the wrinkles at his eyes and the laugh lines around his mouth. He feels more than naked, he feels _exposed_. He wonders about picking up his sunglasses, but then she’s on him again, her lips hot against his own, her fingers deftly working the buttons on his shirt in an impatient bid to get to the skin underneath.

Well, if she’s not bothered about the fact that he’s almost old enough to be her father, he’s not going to worry about the fact that she’s still, somehow, two centuries old.

He fumbles at the bottom of her t-shirt, savoring the softness of her skin under his calloused hands. She lets out a small gasp at his cold hands, but then she’s got his shirt open and he shrugs it off, his hands returning to their exploration of her body. His skin prickles in the cool air of the guesthouse, and he pulls her closer, sliding her into his lap.

She forces his hands down and grabs the bottom of her shirt, whipping it over her head; it drifts away towards the floor like a white bird. His hands are back on her immediately, memorizing the shape and size of her breasts - small, like the rest of her, a handful each and white but for surprisingly large, dark nipples. They’re enticing, like gumdrops, but for now he settles for lightly running a thumb over one, eliciting a gasp from her.

He teases her, gripping her nipple between his thumb and forefinger, and she leans her body into his, her hands scrabbling for purchase against his back. The curve of her neck is against his lips and he kisses it hungrily, tracing the line of her throat with his tongue. A low moan escapes her, breathy and insistent, and he squeezes her nipple again. He can feel himself pulse where she sits in his lap, the front of his pants growing tighter with each sigh.

As of on cue, one of her hands snakes down to his waistband and begins the arduous task of freeing him from the buttons and zips below. It takes some time - he doesn’t dare take his lips from her throat, her shoulder, her collarbone so that she can see - but then there’s some room, with her hands shoving his pants down. He sits up a little, taking his hand from her breast to anchor himself as he stands partway, and his pants slide down to his ankles.

He’s a patient man, but each little groan that escapes from her makes it harder to focus. He scrambles his feet, trying to force his boots off without unlacing them and fails; instead, Charmer leans back with a laugh, out of his grasp.

“Why don’t you take a moment and do it properly?” The giggle dies in her throat when she looks at his lap. Her expression changes from one of amusement; her eyes seem unfocused and she licks her lips in a way that seems unconscious. He bends over at the waist and fights with his bootlaces, finally pulling off them off and tossing them and his socks aside so he can finally - mercifully - fling his pants and underwear after them.

When he looks up again, he can see Charmer has done the same; she stands nude on the worn rug, her face suddenly shy. He reaches out to her, one hand grabbing her gently by the hip and guiding her to him. She comes along easily, a smile darting across her face.

“Is this - um, do you -” His tongue trips over the words and is silenced by her lips against his again, her hands sliding down his body.

“Yes,” she says, wrapping one small hand around his cock. “Yes, I want you.”

He tries not to gasp and fails as she strokes it gently, then with more strength. Her smile changes, watching his face, to one of knowing lasciviousness. His hands search her body, looking for something to grab, to pinch or rub or squeeze, but everything is so enticing and her hand feels so good he can’t think straight. It takes some doing, but he finally finds the slick wet folds between her legs, and for a moment all he can do is rest one finger there as he collects himself.

Deacon takes her by the hip and guides her back to the bed, trying not to betray his excitement, his trembling knees. He gives her a gentle push and she sits, releasing him as she goes. The mattress bounces with her weight against it, and he has to close his eyes a moment, watching her go up and down like that.

He parts her knees with a cautious hand and she lets out a giggle.

“I’m not going to break, you know,” she laughs, and he does too, although she stops when he leans down and tentatively licks her, his tongue slowly working its way from the supple skin of her inner thigh up and in, towards her center. She squirms around him, her back flat and her arms and legs tense and flailing, a waver in her voice when she says his name.

The scent of her desire is intense, satisfying. He nudges her with his nose and she lets out a growl, her hand alighting on the back of his head and guiding him towards the tender nub of her clit. He gives it an experimental suck and she lets out the biggest gasp yet, one that doesn’t seem to end, and he settles in, alternately licking her folds and sucking, listening to her as her pleasure builds. One of his hands works its way up to cup one of her breasts, and she writhes against him, a lusty turmoil of arms and legs.

When he pauses for a moment to look up at her face, he’s surprised. Usually trying to read her thoughts is impossible, but this time he can see her appetite, her _craving_ clearly. She grabs his chin in one small, strong hand and guides his face to hers. He settles his body atop hers, luxuriating in the way her skin feels, so smooth against his own. She kisses his lips again, rubbing the length of her body against his, and then she’s guiding him inside her, the slickness of her arousal and his spit giving him a easy welcome.

He kisses her as they move together, his hands roaming the silky skin of her hips and legs. One of her legs wraps around his waist, drawing him deeper into her. He’s so close, sliding inside of her, drowning in the smell of her hair, that when she licks the delicate skin of his earlobe he almost loses it like a teenager popping his cherry.

One of Charmer’s hands sketches lines on his back, her fingers tracing circles and curlicues; he can tell when her climax is nearing because the patterns lose shape and structure and instead become a network of aimless tangents. Her breathing becomes shallower as a low string of disconnected and filthy words make their way from her blooming lips to his ear.

“Fuck, Deacon, oh -” it degenerates from there.

The sound of her spurs him on, the feel of her teasing him closer. His own peak is approaching, looming like a mountain to be climbed. There’s a shuddering tension in his muscles, echoing down his legs and up his trunk, sparkling through his brain like the champagne they opened once when the first courser -

No. He won’t let his thoughts go there. They won’t destroy this.

Not now. Not _her_.

As they climb closer, he can feel a delirious frenzy infect them both. He may be a patient man, but an avid thirst works at Deacon’s body, and seconds before he bursts he can feel her seize beneath him, pulsing around him, her mouth silenced after a single loud gasp. Her body presses firmly up against his and the image of a flower blooming flashes behind his eyes.

He rocks into her, smoothly slipping in and out as she trembles beneath him. Moments later, he reaches his own orgasm, a wave of pleasure taking him from his body. When he’s sensible again, her hands gently stroke his face like small birds, fluttering and gentle.

Later, he’ll wonder about whether it was entirely wise to finish the way he did; would he have been better served to pull out, to eject onto the floor, his shirt, anything? He’ll debate whether he should be worried and counting the days, whether he wants to be a father after all, or if it’s even advisable to be so reckless when he still has so much work to do. Later, he’ll have time for regret.

Now, though, he pulls out of her with a pang of sadness, and looks at the way her face has softened. The sun is dropping and the light that makes its way into the small house is dim and golden, casting her angular body into mellow curves. He runs one hand down her arm, skirting the sensitive skin of her breast, and revels in the knowing giggle it draws from her.

Charmer props herself up on one elbow and inspects him.

“You love me.” She’s not asking. His thoughts drift to his outpost over Vault 111. Three years of waiting after a lifetime of wondering about her.

“No,” he shakes his head, taking the opportunity to drop a kiss on one bare shoulder. She shivers, runs a hand up his chest to cup his chin.

“Liar.” Her smile is self-assured, and cryptic.


	10. Gossip

_ gossip _

_ noun _

_ casual or unconstrained conversation or reports about other people, typically involving details that are not confirmed as being true _

 

Deacon’s not sure how many days he loses in Covenant. The weather turns bad again and he uses this as an excuse to stay inside with Charmer, languidly surveying the contours of her legs, the curve of her breasts, the hollow of her collarbone in which his nose fits perfectly. He charts the white stretch marks on her thighs, a vestige from the childbirth that, to her, was less than a year ago. He unearths a line of freckles that zigzag down her back and kisses each one. It could be three days; it could be a week. The air inside the guesthouse is heavy with the scent of sex and the intimacy of shared secrets. 

Telling the truth is its own kind of drug, he discovers. After so many years of casual dishonesty, the thrill of lying is gone, though the habit still remains. More than once he answers a question or begins telling an untruth and has to backtrack, to start over, to think hard about what’s real and what isn’t and begin again. Charmer’s patient with him - he never knew she could be so accommodating - and eventually he finds himself unloading things he never thought he’d tell to another person.

Tangled in soft white sheets, he tells her about his time in the Institute, the first twenty-three years of his life, and in telling finds he can forget it; things that weighed on him, that made him feel old and tired are lighter now, with two minds to carry them. His childhood below, the things he saw, the things he participated in - they don’t seem to faze her, and Charmer accepts them all with understanding and gentle kisses. 

Someone once said the truth will set you free. For the first time, he realizes now the wisdom of that. 

Except for Barbara - she’s the one thing he doesn’t touch, the one truth he doesn’t even approach. Her ghost lingers, her beloved and confounding memory a specter he can’t share. So far as Charmer knows, his wife was killed by the Deathclaws and her body burned in a fire. He find he hopes to keep it that way.

Deacon doesn’t regret it, but he also can’t admit what he’s done. Not to her, not out loud. That would make it real, more than a dim and violent memory.

His arm wrapped around Charmer’s narrow shoulders, he tells her instead of how he was recruited for the SRB at a young age, when Father discovered his knack for picking up on behavior, clothing styles, speech tics. He has helped program the coursers, teaching them how to appear more human for a pilot program that seems to have ended, probably when he left. As she kisses his chest, her lips moving between old scars and graying tufts of hair, he explains about how he escaped, bribing Liam Binet to send him through using the relay. The kid had always had a kind nature. He stops speaking - stops _ thinking _ entirely - when her mouth moves lower. 

He’s been with other women, of course. Just because his wife is gone doesn’t mean he’s been a monk for the last twenty years. There’s always some girl interested, usually a new agent who only sees the romance of the Railroad, the thrill of risking their neck to help another person and not the day-to-day drudgery of sloshing through sewers and the terror of being caught. Once they realize the harshness of this life and as their passion for fighting the good fight wanes, so does his attraction.

But it’s never been like this. He’s not sure it was even like this with  _ her _ , so many years ago. It felt like it, the days slipping by, lost in a voluptuous labyrinth of sex. But this is different, maybe because he’s older or maybe because he understands how precarious the whole thing is.

 

* * *

The day that he wakes and finds her preparing to leave is sunny and cold. The warm spell has broken - winter is making a brief comeback before spring claims the year - and when she opens the window to let some fresh air in, the breeze wakes Deacon with a shiver.

Charmer is fully dressed, for the first time in a week, or is it a lifetime? Deacon stretches in the bed, patting the mattress next to him, and she walks over, her hips swaying, to sit next to him.

Her face is sad; it makes him sad to see it.

“Do you have to go?” Under the sheet he’s completely naked and it feels wrong for her to be dressed when he’s not. For the first time since he took his sunglasses off days ago, he feels vulnerable.

A nod from her. She sets her jaw, and then she tells him something he doesn’t like.

“I have to go meet a courser. I - I need to go to Libertalia, out on Nahant, and help bring a rogue synth back to the Institute. Apparently after he was...rescued - well, now he’s in charge of some raider gang.”

Is he imagining it, or will she not look him in the eye? 

The sarcastic bastard in his head, the one that doubts everything and everyone, pipes up before he can stop himself. “Is that why you had so many questions about the SRB? So you could take all that information and use it now?”

He knows as soon as he’s spoken that he made a mistake; before the words are even quiet in the air, he wants to apologize, but it’s too late. The look on her face couldn’t be more stricken if he’d slapped her. Her eyes go wide, her mouth disappearing into a tiny O near her chin. She’s stunned.

She’s hurt. 

“I’m just...Desdemona said -” She stops, stands. A pink blush spreads over her cheeks and this time he hates it, hates himself for his part in it. The look she gives him is like ice. “If you think this was just about...pumping you for information -”  She gestures at him, still naked under the sheet. She crosses the room, grabbing her pack from the floor, and opens the door. 

“She told me I might have to prove myself to them, to earn their trust. This is how I can do that, much as you might not like it.” She heaves a sigh and he wants nothing more than to cross to her, to hold her and apologize, but she’s already out the door. 

“You had nothing to do with it. This...this was  _ special. _ ”

The door swings shut behind her with a loud crack. The air is noticeably cooler, although Deacon isn’t sure if it’s from the air outside or the intense loathing he now feels for himself. He scrounges around the floor for his sunglasses and puts them back on as he searches for his clothes and kicks himself.

 

* * *

 

He tracks her east towards the coast. Just because he fucked everything up before it could really begin is no reason Charmer shouldn’t have an extra set of eyes watching her back. 

She spends the night in County Crossing; Deacon backtracks to the National Guard Training Yard kills a couple of ferals that have infested an old bus. He sleeps on the bus, shivering without a fire and kicking himself for always expecting the worst from people. 

For expecting the worst from her, despite everything he knows to the contrary.

The nightmares pay him a visit again, only this time it’s not Barbara he kills with the bat; it’s Charmer’s body he pulverizes and lights on fire. 

Wonder what old-world psychiatrists would make of that, he teases himself cruelly the next day. He tracks her to Revere Beach and then north, around the bay, into Nahant. She encounters some trouble, but he stays back and watches her take care of herself; she’s better at shooting things until they stay down than he is, anyway.

The courser she meets is a black man in dark glasses. If the sunglasses make her think of him, she doesn’t show it. She’s Charmer again - both irreverent and business-like, and she and the courser load their weapons and head into the floating raider den. Deacon debates going in after them but in the end gives up. With a courser at her back she’ll probably be fine, and he should probably report in to HQ again. Desdemona tends to worry.

 

* * *

The crypt beneath the church is the same as always: dank and candle-lit with an aroma of decay and unwashed socks. When you put so many agents in a cramped space with no place to shower, they’re bound to get a little ripe. By this time, he’s mellow, relaxed by the bottle of gin he purchased in a quick detour to Goodneighbor. The smell doesn’t bother him, or the closeness of too many people in too small a space. 

As always, Desdemona paces the tomb like a lion - or, at least, like the holotapes of the big cats he saw on that trip to the library. Her concerned expression lightens when she sees him approach. He takes a tentative sniff of his breath behind his hand and deems that it doesn’t smell too strongly of booze and approaches her, lighting a cigarette as he goes. The smell of tobacco makes a perfect mask for the smell of gin, and when he offers her one he sees the hint of a smile cross her lips.

“Deacon,” she greets him as she always does, without an actual greeting, just his name. She certainly has a flair for the dramatic, he thinks as she lights the proffered cigarette, exhaling the smoke towards the cavernous ceiling. 

“Yeah, boss?” He hopes he sounds like himself; he hopes he doesn’t sound too drunk, or heartbroken. His mind drifts to the clear bottle in his pack, and it takes some work to refocus his attention on her. 

“Chasing ghosts again?” The half-smile lingers. She has no idea how right she is.

He forces a laugh that he hopes sounds casual, genuine. A week in Covenant and it’s like he’s forgotten how to lie. 

“You could say that,” he says. “Took a while for Charmer to make it back to the surface. Turns out she’s got some sort of loyalty test for the Institute. There’s - well, there was a synth out in Nahant that went full raider.”

“Jesus,” Desdemona exhales a plume of smoke as she curses. “One of ours?”

Deacon nods. “Sounds like it.”

“What happened?”

He knew she was going to ask this. He always has the answers and this once - well, he doesn’t.

“Not sure,” he admits, earning a raised eyebrow and a chuckle from her. It would hurt more, but he knows when he’s done he can go find a bed to crash in and drink until it all melts away. “She had to meet up with a courser and I thought it best if I made myself scarce. Probably they were successful, though.”

Desdemona nods thoughtfully; her hair gleams in the flickering lights. Although she’s got to be as old as he is, she doesn’t have a gray hair on her head. Curious.

“I did tell her to do whatever was necessary to get in good with them. It’s the only way she’ll be able to reach Patriot.” With her voice so low, it’s clear Des isn’t speaking to him but is thinking out loud. It’s one of her quirks, albeit less obnoxious than when she sings showtunes late at night. 

“Well,” this is louder and more likely directed to him. “While we wait for her to get back, I need you to run a mission for me. I was hoping to send Charmer with you, but it looks like Glory will have to go in her place, since we don’t know how long it’ll be and this needs to be done now.”

“What’s the deal?” Anything, he thinks. Anything that’ll get him out of here and away, so he’s not just waiting for a woman who hates him.

“Randolph Safehouse reached out.”

“Randolph? I thought they were gone, wiped off the map.”

Again the ghost of a smile flits across his boss’s face. “Exactly.”

“When should we leave?” 

“How’s about tomorrow?” She crushes her cigarette out in the ashtray before her. Deacon follows suit, intensely grateful for the chance to leave the church, to get out in the fresh air and try to forget. 

“Sounds good. I’ll let Glory know to get ready.”

 

* * *

 

Traveling with Glory is familiar, and safe. Due to his unique position within the Railroad, Deacon is one of the few people to know most of the agents, but Glory is probably the only real friend he has in the organization. It’s a relief to be out with her and not someone new, someone who might want to chat or ask too many questions.

Glory knows by now not to ask him anything unless she feels like hearing a tall tale, and she seems to respect his commitment to his craft. At least, that’s what Deacon tells himself as they trek north, to East Boston Prep - the former Randolph Safehouse. 

“So what’s going on with you and Charmer?”

“What d’ya mean?” He steps over a piece of rusted metal in the road. Pretends to be surprised and confused by the question.

“Well, I heard some of the runners talking. Drummer Boy heard from Hermes that you two shared a  _ moment _ back at New Year’s.” She’s looking off in the distance but Deacon can hear the smile in her voice. She sounds a bit like the cat the ate the canary, whatever that is. 

It kills Deacon to laugh, but he does, infusing it with as much derision as he can muster. “I wouldn’t buy it if I were you. Hermes had a little too much to drink that night. I heard him talking about bare-knuckle boxing a deathclaw, too.”

Glory snickers at this and for a minute, Deacon thinks he’s in the clear. “Cut the crap, man. You and I both know there’s something going on there.”

Oh. So she wasn’t laughing at what he said, she was laughing at _him_. 

He debates lying, spinning a web of bullshit that’ll put her thoughts back where they belong - on watching for dangers on the road - and instead gives it up. He’s broken the habit of lying just to do it, just to practice. 

“Alright, there _ might _ be.” Well, maybe it’s not entirely broken. 

Glory’s laugh is real this time, no half-measures; it’s bold and congratulatory. “Nice, man. Did you hit it?”

He gapes at her. He’s heard rumors, of course, of the people Glory’s bedded - few women say no to her, apparently - but they’ve never spoken so baldly about a specific person before. And not about someone he...cares for. 

But he must be taking too long to formulate a good answer, because Glory laughs again. 

“Silence means yes.”

“Maybe,” he croaks, wondering when everything became so complicated. 

“ _Maybe_ means yes,” she crows. 

“So that’s why you took so long to come back to HQ. We were all taking bets on it.”

This surprises him. “Really? Who won?”

“Depends on what you mean by ‘winning.’ Drummer Boy’s the one who said you might hook up with Charmer, but he bet you got your ass kicked by a mirelurk. Carrington got closest, I guess. He bet you were shacked up with some girl.”

Carrington. That clever, snide bastard. At this, even Deacon laughs. 

They walk for a while. It’s quiet around them, except for a sea bird flying overhead, cawing. They must be nearing the beach. 

“You’re not going to tell anyone, are you?”

Glory snorts. “‘Course not. Not till you’re ready.”

Relief washes over him in a wave. “Thank you.”

“But once you come out with it, oh man, are we gonna torture you.”


	11. Distracting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deacon does something off-screen in this chapter that I've been told squicked out a reader. It involves the issue of consent and no one is hurt who doesn't deserve it, and everyone ends up okay (not out of convenience, but in a way that I feel is true to the character). This is a heads-up just in case that's a trigger for you, because sexual violence is NOT okay. Yes means yes, kiddos.

_d istracting_

_ verb _

_ to draw away or divert, as the mind or attention _

 

Randolph Safehouse is, as assumed, no longer fit to be a safehouse, instead reverting to the East Boston Preparatory School, the “ally” symbol near the door covered with a crude wooden sign welcoming traders. The sign turns Deacon’s stomach, although he can’t put his finger on why. Maybe it’s actually the gin - he bought a flask when they went through Bunker Hill, a small steel bottle that fits just right into his pocket. The gin he fills it with is rotgut, the cheapest Savoldi had on hand, but it’s numbing. He’s going for aloof but worries he may be toeing the line of anesthetized, and in a distant way finds he doesn’t care.

Glory goes into the school first to take a peek and comes out a few minutes later, a baffled look on her face. Deacon shoves the flask back into his pocket as she trots out, hoping she doesn’t notice and grateful once again for his sunglasses; nothing like shades to hide bloodshot eyes. 

It’s clear from the frown she gives him that she knows something’s up, but instead of calling him out, she gives him a once-over and says simply, “You need to see this.”

Deacon follows her into the building, stifling a juniper-scented hiccup and praying Glory is far enough away to miss it. Inside is dark - darker still with his glasses on, but like hell is he taking them off. Glory leads him through a labyrinth of stairs, broken walls, and poorly-constructed wooden barriers. She has less trouble navigating the destruction than he does - walking seems to be an issue - and as they pass bodies, he wonders at her handiwork. Not much of a surprise, really, given her history as a courser -

“I didn’t do any of this,” she says, breaking into his train of thought. 

“What?” He looks up at her, surprised. Her expression teeters between wary and annoyed before settling on frustrated schoolteacher. 

“You said I must’ve cleared this so fast because I was trained as a courser,” she says slowly, as if explaining the basics of tying his own shoes. He doesn’t remember saying any of that, but if Glory says so -

“So you found it like this?”

“I haven’t shown you the weirdest part yet,” she says, turning away from him again and continuing up a set of stairs far to the back of the building. 

They climb what feels like a hundred stairs and Glory leads him through a series of classrooms to one that appears to have been turned into a jail - cells built of junk wood and scrap metal line the room, each with their own piss bucket and locking gate. The bodies of two more raiders lie in the middle of the room, both with bullets in their heads and not a single other injury. 

“This is the Institute,” Glory says, and for the first time since he’s known her, she looks nervous. “One shot in the head? That’s a courser. Always go for the most efficient way to put down a threat and move on.”

It rings a dim bell in the back of his mind, but Deacon doesn’t want to think about it. He remembers writing that line of code himself.

_ If the goal is elimination, go for headshots first. If a headshot is unrealistic or has a low probability of success, a torso shot is the next option.  _

He nods, his mouth dry. His hand is on the flask in his pocket when Glory cocks her head towards the doorway cut into the wall at the other end of the room. He drops it and follows her lead through what must have once been a closet and into another room with another series of jail cells. His feet stick to the floor and he tries not to think about what he’s walking through.

Glory points to a cell at the end. There’s a figure in it, groaning pitifully and clutching its head. The barred door of the cell is locked and the man inside doesn’t seem to be armed, so they approach cautiously. Glory pulls a small laser pistol out to cover him, and Deacon speaks.

“Hey there. What, uh, what happened here?”

“Oh Jesus, fuck, you gotta help me,” the man says, turning suddenly and scrambling onto his feet. It’s difficult to do given the state his body is in - Deacon can’t count the number of wounds dripping slowly coagulating blood from the man. His eyes are haunted and Deacon wonders if maybe he’s been here since before the raiders took over. If so, no wonder he looks so shell-shocked. His bobby pins and a screwdriver are in his hand and Deacon kneels to begin working at the lock. It’s Glory’s steady hand on his shoulder that stops him.

“Not ‘til you tell us what happened here.” Her voice is calm, commanding. Deacon sits back on his heels.

The man is babbling, almost insensate. His dark hair sticks up in blood-tinged spiked across the top of his head. “That woman and the man in the long black coat, they fuckin’ slaughtered us, man. Everyone, they just came through and shot the shit out of everyone and locked me in here.”

Deacon perks up at the mention of a man in a black coat - it’s the most apt description of a courser he’s ever heard. This close to Libertalia, there’s very little chance that he’s not talking about Charmer and her new...companion. 

“Charmer,” he breathes, unaware he’s doing it.

“Please, man, you gotta get me out of here, I gotta eat, I gotta run, I gotta get out of here before they come back,” the man keeps going in this vein and Deacon’s readying his lockpicking tools when Glory lets out an exasperated sigh. 

“The people who were here before the raiders took over,” she says evenly. “What happened to them?”

“People? What people? I don’t know anything about any fucking people,” the guy says. Something about his tone is wrong, and he waits too long to start talking. He knows something. Deacon pockets his bobby pins and screwdriver and stands. 

“They left him locked in there. Must’ve been for a reason,” Glory says to him, her voice soft. She keeps her gun trained on the man in the cage. 

Deacon nods. He’s never known Charmer to be cruel, but she does believe in justice.

The man knows something is up now. His frenzy intensifies; he becomes more frantic, more determined. Desperate. He reaches an arm between the bars of the cage and Deacon takes an involuntary step back, out of his reach. His fingers are black with grime and blood, clawing at the air between them, inches from Deacon’s lapel, grasping.

“The people who were here before you moved in,” Deacon tries again. “What happened to them?”

The hand stops, and the man lets out a vicious giggle. It’s like watching a mask slide off his face, and suddenly Deacon thinks he sees what Charmer must have seen, knows why he’s locked in this cage, alone at the top of this mausoleum.

“They signed the blood pact or they died,” he hisses savagely at them through the bars. “Some of ‘em died anyway.”

Suddenly Deacon is dizzy. He needs a drink, or some air - something. He needs to not be here.

Charmer locked him in here to die. She did it because she knew what he did.

“Blood pact?” Glory prompts.

A nod. “You sign it, you fight for me, or you die. It’s pretty effective.” Another chuckle, another drop in Deacon’s stomach at the sound of it. “You want me to tell you how they screamed?”

Deacon’s heard enough. He turns without a word to Glory and starts walking. He walks, then runs, through the building before he can think differently, back out into the spring sunshine where he can sip his gin and try to forget.

 

* * *

There’s a woman on the floor with her head caved in. His boots stick in the blood pooling under her body, the blood that works its way into every crack and seam in the wood floor. He drops the swatter he forgot he was holding; it lands with a thump and rolls away from him, under a couch where it’ll be forgotten. 

His hands are red. Paint? No.

He knows what he has to do: he has to burn everything to the ground. If the shack is gone, no one will come looking for him, not the Institute, not the militia. He’ll go to ground, somehow. There’s a doctor in Diamond City that can give him a new face. He’s got the caps for it.

The caps that were supposed to protect them, to help them raise the baby they could never have. 

Synths can’t have babies.

It’s enough to start over again. What’ll he do then?

He killed his wife. He doesn’t deserve to start over.

She was spying. The whole thing was a lie.

She was his  _ wife _ . 

The matches are in his pocket. There’s gasoline by the door, and dousing the house with it is easy enough. He takes just the caps and the clothes on his back, nevermind if they’re spattered with blood or not. 

The swatter he leaves, but he takes the sniper rifle he’s been working on. It seems foolish - if he left it, he could die in the ruins the way he deserves to, but some animal part of his brain insists he bring it. For protection.

As if he can protect himself against everything that’s out there.

The shack lights easily, the old wood catching fast. He doesn’t have long - people will be drawn by the blaze. He swings the rifle onto his back and turns, his feet carrying him down the road even as inside he’s screaming.

 

* * *

When he wakes up, it’s to a pounding headache and blinding sunlight. He doesn’t recognize where he is - it’s the ruins of someone’s bedroom. He lies on a mattress that smells of mildew and has a large, suspicious dark stain across the center. There’s only half a roof over him and a fascinating green fungus glows dully from the ceiling. He puts his hands over his eyes, rubs them hard, and searches about the floor for his sunglasses. His fingers finally connect with them - he can’t see without squinting, and he puts them on.

As has become his habit, he reaches for his flask, but it’s gone. The big bottle of gin from his pack is missing, too. Irritated with himself for letting his supply get so low, Deacon pulls a cigarette out of his pack and lights it, wincing at the flash of the lighter, then again as the gold plate glints in the sun. The first drag of smoke burns his throat, but, coughing, he takes another. 

He regrets it immediately when his cough turns into a retch and he’s vomiting on the floor, sour yellow bile that turns his stomach even more as it comes up. 

When it’s finally over, he sits back on the mattress, his arms shaking. There’s a sound, and when he turns, Glory stands at the top of the stairs, smirking with her arms crossed. 

“What the fuck’re you looking at?” He knows it’s rude. He doesn’t care. 

Glory, credit where it’s due, doesn’t look the least bit perturbed. 

“Good morning to you, too, sunshine,” she cracks, picking something up off the dresser next to her. “Water?”

What he really wants is gin, or rum, or anything that’ll dull this headache, but he takes the can gratefully all the same, peeling back the lid and downing half of it in one go. His stomach turns again, threatening to force the liquid back up, but he swallows and counts to twenty. By the time he gets to fifteen, it’s subsided and he takes another tentative sip.

“Thanks,” he finally says. His lips are dry. 

Glory ignores this and instead hands him a bowl. Cold mac and cheese. The golden cheese is congealed around the noodles, but he knows better to complain. He takes a bite, chews it for a long time, and finally swallows. When it stays down, he tries another, then another.

He’s about halfway through the bowl before he’s ready to ask the question he already knows the answer to.

“Glory?”

“Yeah?” She’s made her way across the room now, to the mattress opposite his, and is sorting things in her pack. Her minigun lies on the floor between them as if standing guard.

“Why does my eye hurt?” Because it does. A lot. His vision on that side is blurry, and it’s swollen, bumping up against the lens of his glasses. He doesn’t need a mirror to tell him when he’s got a shiner.

She chuckles, a low rumble that tells him all he needs to know. “You got… _ fresh _ last night. I had to put you on your ass.”

Oh shit, it’s worse than he thought. Holding out hope, he asks, “Fresh? How -”

“You kissed me. With _ tongue _ . And then you tried to cop a feel when I told you to stop it.” The look on her face, thank goodness, is one of amusement and contempt, not anger or resentment. Apparently it’s funny to her - not the reaction any man wants when he goes after a woman, but then again, he’s not interested in Glory. 

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. Something tells me you’re not going to try it again.” Well, that’s definitely true. Even if he did want to get with her, there’s no way he’d think about going after her now, not with the way his eye smarts in the daylight.

“I’m still sorry. I shouldn’t have tried...anything like that.”

“I told you it’s fine. You’re not my type.” They both chuckle at that. No, he’d be more likely to lose a girl to Glory. 

Except, apparently, for last night.

The smile on Glory’s face fades. The problem with reading people the way he does is he knows what they’re going to do and say before they do. And she’s going to give it to him again, only this time with her words.

“You can’t keep doing this.” He sighs, gestures for her to go on. “It’s not all about last night. You’ve been drunk off your ass since you got back to HQ and it’s not a good look for you. You’re going to get yourself killed.”

All probably true. Also probably true is the part where Deacon isn’t sure he cares. 

“She left me, Glory.”

“So, some girl left you. Boo-fucking-hoo. Get your shit together, man. Whether you want to try to get her back or not, you’re sure as shit not going to do it by drinking your scrawny ass into a coma.”

He blinks at her and slowly - despite himself - a small smile creeps across his face.

“You’re absolutely terrible at this, d’ya know that?”

Glory takes out a cigarette and lights it with a flourish. “It’s called tough love, man.”

Tough love. He swallows a retort and instead exhales heavily, setting the bowl of noodles aside. 

“So what’s the game plan?”

“Well, I can’t take you back to HQ like this. I figure we stay here a few days, lie low while you dry out,” she exhales smoke into three perfect rings. 

A pang hits him in the chest as he thinks again of Charmer, of the way her mouth looked when she would do that. He wonders if he’ll see her again, and then he wants some gin desperately. Instead he sits there, waiting, his hands fidgeting in his lap.

“When I can trust you,” she continues. “Then we go report in.”

“Is it safe for us to be gone so long?”

A snort from Glory. “Hell of a lot safer than you getting me killed heading back through Boston.”

Finally, he nods. He needs this, whether he wants to admit it or not. 

“Ok.” She stands, dusting herself off. “Hey Glory?”

She looks back at him.

“Thanks.”

As she heads downstairs, he swears he can see the ghost of a real smile on her lips. 


	12. Vulnerability

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't think I'd have time to finish proofing and post this today, but it turns out I did.
> 
> There's some adult content in here. If you're not cool with that, head over to FFN, where I cut it out, and you won't miss much.

_vulnerability_

_adjective_

_the quality of being capable of being physically or emotionally wounded_

 

Glory was right: two days and nights after the Black Night in Which He Tried to Molest Glory, Deacon finds he feels better. It helps that he has no memory of the incident itself, which is in turn helped by the fact that Glory doesn’t speak of it again, nor does she act any differently around him. She’s still his friend - perhaps his only friend, the only one he’s ever had - and their talk turns to other things. It’s all forward thinking, plans for the future: what they’ll do when the Institute is finally no more and how they’ll get to that wondrous day. She says she’d like to see something beyond the Commonwealth, maybe take a boat south to see the coast. They don’t speak of the past, or of their shared allies; nothing that skates too close to Deacon’s tender center, nothing that might make him uncomfortable.

He’s not sure whether he’s touched or annoyed by the care Glory takes around him. In the end, he doesn’t suppose it really matters; she’s protecting him, and there’s something intimately special about that.

On the third morning he feels strong again. His backslide was unfortunate but didn’t set him back too badly, he thinks.

At least this time, the only person who got hurt was himself.

 

* * *

 

Back in HQ, things are the same as they always are. He finds it claustrophobic, being in this hole in the ground with so many other people, after spending so much time above ground, in the sun and the air.

“Deacon,” comes the greeting from Desdemona. She looks more tired than the last time he saw her, with dark smudges under her eyes. She gives a pointed look at Glory, who returns with a half-nod, and Deacon has the distinct feeling of something sliding into place.

 _Oh_. Glory wasn’t alone in Operation Save Deacon from Himself. He can’t tell if the flickering heat and pressure in his head is because he’s grateful or embarrassed.

“Randolph is gone, wiped out by raiders some time back,” he tells Des, segueing directly into the pertinent information. The boss nods, her lips pursed and brow furrowed.

“Dammit! I wonder how long that message was waiting.” He can hear the frustration in her voice. To have lost another safehouse - well, it’s not helpful, that’s for sure. “In the meantime, we need to establish a couple more safehouses. By all reports, Calavera and Caretaker are ready to head their own houses. I’d like you to go collect Calavera and clear Spectacle Island.”

At this, he’s unable to hide his shock. “Really, boss? Sounds kinda...dangerous.”

Desdemona’s face knits itself into something of a frown. “It’s out of the way and has a terrible reputation -”

“For good reason,” he interjects.

“Which means,” she continues, refusing as usual to let him interrupt her, “that no one’s going out there just to look around. Which makes it a good place to keep hot packages until we’re able to place them.”

She has a point. He may not like it, but it’s probably true.

He sighs. “I’m at least going to need a little extra help,” he says. It’s true - if the stories are accurate, and he has no reason to think they aren’t, the number of mirelurks on that island could decimate a couple agents in no time.

“Well, Calavera’s got a tourist we’re converting, goes by the name of Derby. He’ll be staying at the house with her. You’ll meet them in Goodneighbor. And,” she sighs, clearly not thrilled about what she’s about to say. “You can take Glory, too. But as soon as the island is clear, she needs to report back in. You can stay for a while, help them get set up correctly.”

The thought of Glory - and her minigun - is strangely reassuring. Deacon nods.

“Well, it’s not like this hasn’t been great, but we might as well go and get started. No time like the present, right?”

His boss quirks an eyebrow at him but ultimately decides to let it go. Maybe she knows how badly he needs this, how much he needs to just keep moving.

The only way to recover is to forget.

 

* * *

 

The Third Rail is swanky for the Commonwealth, although it doesn’t hold a candle to anything he saw in Vegas on his last trip, about ten years ago. Deacon figures if Mayor Hancock saw Gomorrah, he’d probably give up, just close up shop and never be seen or heard from again.

He thought about ordering a drink just for show, then decided it was too risky and got a Nuka-Cola, despite the sigh from Charlie. Glory - spectacularly failing to blend in despite the Nuka-World t-shirt they scrounged up for her - gets a vodka and sits with him. Barely a few minutes later, Calavera and the new guy, Derby, show up. Calavera stands out just a bit less than Glory, but Derby turns out to be another middle-aged white guy, much like himself, with graying hair and a thick Southie accent. He could be Joe Savoldi or anyone else; the man is entirely unremarkable.

Perfect.

They sit, and feel each other out, and drink, and Deacon’s starting to feel okay about the whole thing when something makes him look up and he sees _her_ leaving the VIP room. Charmer - it’s definitely her, even though for once she’s dressed like a woman in some slinky sequined number and pumps, the effect ruined only slightly by her Pip-Boy - walks past his table, arm in arm with the mayor. She doesn’t seem to see him, which isn’t a surprise; when she goes by she smells like a still.

Her hair, dark and shiny, tumbles in loose waves over her shoulder and the desire to bury his face in it is physically painful.

His heart stops, or maybe it speeds up; it’s impossible, he thinks, but maybe it does both at once, somehow. Hancock’s arm is around her waist, hand resting far too familiarly on her hip, though from the way she walks she needs the extra support. They head up the stairs together, her head settling lightly on the ghoul’s shoulder. Everything around him seems to pause for a moment, or fall silent. He doesn’t hear the laugh that falls from Calavera’s cut lips, or the sound of Magnolia singing. All he can hear is the quiet clicking of her shoes as she climbs the stairs and the rumble of Hancock speaking softly to her.

All he can see is the way the mayor’s scarred, dessicated hand tightens around Charmer’s waist and gently rubs her upper thigh.

 

* * *

 

The other are asleep in the Rexford - tomorrow morning they’ll start the long walk down to the bay just south of the Castle, where they’ll scavenge a boat and ride over to the island. The trek will probably take two days, maybe three if they run into trouble, or maybe even as many as four. It’s going to be a long week with few creature comforts and Deacon should be sleeping in his clean bed, but he can’t, not with the dreams that continue to plague him.

Instead he’s out standing in an alley, staring at the neon and debating heading back to the Third Rail to get completely shitfaced. As if that ever solves anything.

He knows he should be more careful - wandering around Goodneighbor alone and at night is probably not one of his better ideas - but he’s just so…tired? Sad? He’s spent so much time lying to everyone, he can’t even identify his own feelings anymore. The weariness of maintaining so many different fictions is settling upon him again.

There’s the sounds of the door to the Memory Den swinging open and slamming shut, then footsteps approaching, and Deacon ducks farther back into the black shadows of the alley. He doesn’t want to see anyone; he doesn’t want anyone to see him.

A woman bursts into the alley; she’s crying quietly, shoulders quivering. Deacon hurriedly stubs out his cigarette, hoping she hasn’t noticed the coal burning in the dark, but it appears her back is to him. The door opens and shuts again; another patter of footsteps, this one calmer, less hurried. The figure who comes around the corner wears a tricorn hat, the distinctive shape glowing in the red of the Den’s fluorescent lights. It dawns on him, way too late, that Hancock and Charmer are standing in the alley with him. Deacon shrinks back further, trying to become invisible, wishing he had just stayed in the room. The sequins on Charmer’s dress catch the light and glimmer, casting a pattern on the wall behind her.

There’s a consoling tone from Hancock, although Deacon’s too far down the alley to pick out individual words. He wraps his arms around Charmer and she shudders, then seems to calm a little. It looks like she wipes her eyes, and then there’s a dark laugh from her. Hancock rubs her hair softly, laying a kiss on the top of her head, but when he pulls her towards him, Charmer takes a step back. Deacon’s stomach drops alarmingly, but then Hancock and Charmer are both laughing, and a moment later the mayor is tipping his hat to her and sauntering off towards the State House.

Alone.

He can wait here - he’s sure she doesn’t want to see him, not after the way they left things - for her to leave, and that’s his plan, but before he can figure out what’s happening, she’s turned and walked halfway down the alley to him.

“Gotta smoke?”

Shit. Shit, shit, _shit_. Wordlessly, he holds his pack out to her. She takes two, puts them both in her mouth, and leans forward so he can light them. Charmer’s slim fingers pluck one from between her lips and she holds it out to him.

He takes it, still not daring to speak - he remembers what Glory said - and takes a puff, trying not to ogle her in that incredible, impractical dress. Maybe if he’s quiet she’ll leave and she’ll never know it was him.

“I’ve missed you.”

Well, maybe not.

She’s looking at him critically, and for a moment he’s embarrassed by the ratty t-shirt and jeans he’s wearing, although he’s not sure why. It’s not like she’s never seen him look so casual before. Maybe it’s just that she looks so great; in those pumps she even looks leggy, which is a feat in itself.

“I missed you too,” he finally exhales, and it feels like he’s letting out a century’s worth of tension. She flicks her ash and when she looks at him, her eyes are dark. All he can see is his own reflection staring back at him, tiny and distorted and lost.

“I never should have -” but she cuts him off with a wave, taking a staggering step closer. She’s so close to him now he could touch her, but he won’t - he’ll be good, he’ll take things at her pace. If she never forgives him and all he has is that one dazzling week, so be it. He can handle that; he can allow her to walk away from him, if that’s what she wants.

“I don’t want to talk about it, not right now.” Her words are slightly slurred and in a way that makes him think it’s not just drinking she’s been doing. Well, she’s been hanging out with Hancock - he shouldn’t be surprised. He wonders what she’s on - jet? Med-x?

With everything she has to deal with - no he doesn’t blame her. He’s in no position to blame anyone for self-medicating.

But he still has to know.

“Are you and Mayor Hancock -”

“That’s none of your business.” A snort from her, then softer: “He wishes.”

A warmth spreads from Deacon’s toes and up through his body. Whatever he saw -

She turns to him, the hand with the cigarette in it dropping to her side, and for a moment he’s too transfixed by the smudged eyeliner and fading lipstick she’s wearing - who _is_ she today? - to realize what’s happening, but then her arms are around his neck and her lips are on his and he’s stunned and confused and so fucking lucky he can’t believe it.

Her body is delicious, pressed as it is against his own, her skin twitching as he rubs his hand against her cheek, her neck, across her pale exposed shoulders, down her back. Her lips are aggressive; they won’t take no for an answer. She presses her mouth against his hungrily, greedily, her tongue seeking his, and her hands are running over his smooth head. Smoke drifts up from the alley floor where their cigarettes have been dropped and forgotten.

Charmer is everywhere, all at once; her hands work at his belt, and he can’t help the way it makes him grow hard - he knows this is wrong, with her high and drunk and grieving, but if she wants to forget, who is he to argue? Her hands slip down his pants; they feel amazing, strong fingers wrapping around him, urging him on as he fumbles at her breasts, the sequins biting into his hands.

Before he knows it, before he can process - he’s still busy kissing her neck, laying lovebites on her shoulder that are met with soft moans - his pants are around his ankles. Behind him, the brick wall is rough, crumbling. He runs his hands up the soft skin of her thighs, relishing the way she leans her head into his neck as he does, her forehead resting on his shoulder. Her skirt hikes up easily; she kicks off her panties and they’re swallowed in the darkness and filth of the alley.

He traces a hand up her inner thigh, and what he finds there makes him groan with wanting; she’s so wet his hand is soaked as he gently circles her clit, his fingers seeking her entrance. When he finds it, she stifles a grunt into his shoulder and drops against him, the curve of her body soft and enticing. She shivers as he works one finger inside her, then another.

This is wrong, he thinks. It’s wrong; he wants something more than this from her.

He loves her.

Deacon grips her hip and turns her, thinking he’ll pull his pants up and leave, but somehow his body takes over, pressing her against the wall, and bends his knees. In a moment he’s inside her. He tries to go slow, to take his time, to _treasure_ this in case it’s the last time, but her hands are on his hips, pulling him into her hard and fast, her back braced against the brick, hips angled towards him. He stops kissing her - he can’t, at this angle, even though he desperately wants to - and braces himself with one hand on the wall, groaning loudly as he fucks her until he can’t think anymore.

When she comes, she cries.

 

* * *

 

When she’s wiped herself with a handkerchief from his pocket and taken another cigarette from his pack, he knows they shouldn’t have done this. Not now. Not here.

Not without talking things out.

She’s distant again, not really looking him in the eye. Regret, a hateful and cruel thing, tugs at him.

Not now. Not like this, he thinks again.

He tries - he reaches one arm out to her, tries to put his hand on her shoulder, but she steps away before he can make contact. Her face is closed off again.

If only he knew what to say.

“I need to get going,” she says finally, her face hazy by the scrim of smoke she exhales as she speaks.

“I’m sorry,” he tries. There’s a flicker of something in her eyes, gone before he can figure out what it was.

“I’ll be back at HQ later,” she says. He knows better than to ask when ‘later’ is. It’s not like he’d answer that question, either.

He leans down and kisses her on the cheek. She doesn’t shy away, but she doesn’t exactly lean into it either.

She does let him do it.  
Then she’s gone, heels making that distinctive tapping. The sound fades as she heads out into the night, back to the State House.


	13. Waffling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Spanish is mediocre. If any of you are native speakers who would like to help translate some inappropriate words/phrases, that'd be cool.

_waffling_

_verb (informal)_

_to fail to make up one’s mind; to dance around a subject_

_or: to speak or write, especially at great length, without saying anything important or useful_

  


When he was a boy in school, Deacon read an ancient myth about a man named Sisyphus. A crafty king caught lying for personal gain, Sisyphus was doomed by his gods to roll a boulder up a mountain for eternity. Whenever he got close to the top, he would lose his grip and it would roll back over him and down the hill, and he would have to start again.

He finds himself thinking of this story more often than it really merits over the following weeks. Clearing out Spectacle Island is actually easier than he thought it would be, thanks to Glory and her minigun. Calavera sustains a minor acid burn, but it turns out Derby has some untapped skills as a field medic, and before Glory leaves the following morning, Deacon has faith that their little operation will be successful.

“Let Des know she can start sending care packages anytime,” Deacon tells Glory as she climbs into one of the two small skiffs they brought to the island. Derby’s planting some seeds in the hopes of starting a small garden and Calavera’s wiring up a turret that’ll face the bay to help keep intrusions to a minimum. He figures in a week or two, he’ll be set to go back to HQ, to start dealing with the rest of his life.

Glory’s lips flirt with a smile, and she gives in when Deacon chucks her lightly on the shoulder.

“Take care of yourself,” she says as she revs the engine and slowly turns the boat towards the mainland.

The last thing Deacon wants to do is ‘take care of himself’. He needs to work, he needs to help the newbies get the safehouse up and running, build up the defenses and start preparing enough food for winter. Work is a great distraction from everything he doesn’t want to think about, everything he’s afraid of.

Like, for example: what exactly did they _do_ in Goodneighbor that night? Her hands were down his pants, which felt like a pretty clear signal, but - he keeps thinking of the way she cried, of the shoulder of his shirt growing damp and salty. The way she smelled of whiskey and something sweet and synthetic. The way she walked away.

Of, if he feels like beating himself up, how about the way he doubted her allegiance to the Railroad? The way he accused her of sleeping with him for information? It’s a well-worn sore spot by now, but that doesn’t mean he can let it go; in fact, it’s so practiced and accessible for him, sitting at the top of his miseries, that not a day goes by that he doesn’t take it out and taunt himself with it.

Not enough? He can pick at the oldest scab of all, the fact that he’s a worthless human being. Each time he sheds a face or a name like a snake’s skin he becomes a little less himself. Reborn anew, optimistic again, he makes the same mistakes each time; each new version of himself fails in the same way, usually by thinking he’s more deserving than he really is. He doesn’t deserve whatever it was Charmer represented to him; at his age, he should know this. A family, a home, a _life_ \- he tries to secure these luxuries for others, for those who are new and clean and not corrupted by the world around them.

Like Sisyphus, he restlessly rolls his discontented boulder up the mountains in his mind only to be crushed by it, again and again.

 

* * *

 

Deacon stays on Spectacle Island longer than planned. There’s always another project to be done, and he doesn’t delegate these tasks; Derby and Calavera are busy enough dealing with the garden and getting the water purifier running. He runs himself ragged, setting up more and more turrets, getting an old generator running so they can have lights and even hot water. He builds a small shower house and lets Calavera test out the hot shower. The kiss she gives his cheek after makes his skin crawl at the puckered skin of her cheeks, but he finds he flushes in pleasure just the same.

It’s nice to know he’s done something that made someone else’s life easier; his boulder feels a little lighter.

He spends his days repairing the structures on the island, taking scrap metal and other junk to create beds and traps and all manner of other things that might make this safehouse more of a home. He wades into the shallow ocean around the island - wincing at the thought of the radiation and always after taking a double-dose of Rad-X - and hauls the wrecked boats to shore. He paws through shipping containers and water-logged boxes to see what’s still usable.

He’s grateful for the warm summer air and the breeze off the ocean. It’s been so long since he spent this kind of time working with his hands and finds it suits him. The small late-forties pudge that had been developing around his waist disappears; his skin grows dark from working outside. He buries himself in the work and finds he hasn’t time to think. It’s a relief to lie down each night too tired to do anything but fall asleep.

 

* * *

 

It’s the sound of the boat that gets his attention. He’d been thinking of calling it a day soon anyway - the clouds blowing in from the southwest have the faintest tinge of irradiated green to them, signaling the storm brewing might pack more of a wallop than the average thundershower.

The boat is small, a speedboat with an engine that sounds like it’s struggling; behind it, a narrow wake is quickly beaten back by the waves beginning to form. It pulls up to the small dock he built last week and the driver cuts the engine. By the time the first pair of feet steps off the boat, Deacon’s standing at the guard tower, his rifle aimed at the approaching figures. Looking through his scope, he feels himself relax. Three men and two women, only one of whom look like they might be a threat - and that one is Charmer.

The other four have the look most newly-rescued synths have: wonder mixed in with horror, curiosity tempered by fear. The bald man steps out of the boat first and walks up the dock towards land. A black man follows suit, helping out a dark-haired woman, and she’s followed by a nauseated-looking man with shaggy brown hair, who immediately retches at his feet. Charmer brings up the rear, speaking softly to the shaggy-haired man and rubbing his back as they make their way up the hill towards the collection of shacks and houses Deacon’s cobbled together.

He greets the synths with a smile, throwing his arms wide and invoking what he thinks of as his game-show host voice.

“Well, howdy there, guys! It sure is a pleasure to meet you all,” he jumps down, trying not to wince as he lands on the rocky sand and his hips ache. Not such a young man anymore, he tells himself. He begins shaking the synths’ hands, one by one, really hamming it up.

Why is he acting like this? Maybe it’s just safer.

Maybe it’s because of the hint of amusement he sees in Charmer’s face as she watches him. Her eyes are as hard to read as ever, but there’s the faintest trace of a small at her lips, and it eggs him on.

The woman introduces herself first, as B2-57. “And what would you prefer we call you, darlin?” He takes her arm in his own and begins walking her up the hill to the safehouse.

B2-57 blinks, then hesitantly says, “I’ve always liked the name Patricia.”

“Well then, Patricia you shall be,” he says, bopping her gently on the forehead with a finger. For a moment he thinks he’s gone too far, but then he hears Charmer’s amused snort from behind him and B2-57 - Patricia, now - breaks out into a timid smile.

 

* * *

 

Getting the synths settled doesn’t take long. Derby gets them something to eat and Calavera shows them the shower house, and before long the four of them are laughing and smiling over a bottle of tequila that Calavera produced from somewhere. The lot of them are in the main building around the cookfire. Overhead the storm booms, but Deacon’s relieved to see that he managed to make the building air tight enough that his geiger counter is only letting out half-hearted beeps every so often.

Despite that, the metallic groan of irradiated thunder and the sound of the acidic rain sliding down the tin roof still turn his stomach. He turns up the radio a little to cover the sounds of the storm and goes in search of Charmer.

He finds her in one of the back rooms, one that’s no bigger than a large closet with nothing more than a bed and a small chest of drawers. Her pack is slung casually atop the dresser and she’s reclining on the bare mattress, her back against the headboard and her legs crossed at the knee. She’s looking at the locket again, her face drawn into a serious, distant expression.

“If we admit that human life can be ruled by reason, then all possibility of life is destroyed,” she murmurs, so softly he can barely hear her. The line is familiar and it strikes him suddenly, all at once, where it’s from.

“ _War and Peace_ ,” he says to her, matching her volume, but still she startles.

“I didn’t hear you come in,” she says, scrambling to tuck the locket away. Her defenses are up again; it breaks his heart to see it even as some part of him is proud to have somehow gotten the jump on her, for once.

He takes a step back into the hallway, wondering why he had to intrude, but then she’s waving him in, her hand fluttering near her face, then patting the foot of the bed. He takes a tentative step forward, then another, and then he’s sitting and looking at her as she curls into a ball.

“I think we should talk.”

A smirk from Charmer. “About what? You hate...talking.”

“I used to,” he admits. “Before...this.” He’s failing. He’s failing at this and he doesn’t know how to recover. He turns to her, pulling off his glasses. He has to look in her eyes.

There’s no reading her, despite the slight lift of her lip.

“You’re right,” he admits, training his eyes on hers. “Six months ago, I wouldn’t have wanted to talk to you or anyone else about what happened. I was a different person then.”

An undignified snort from her. “You’re a different person every six months anyway. This,” she gestures to him, then to herself, “doesn’t have anything to do with it. It’s meaningless.”

That hurts. It hurts more to hear the twinge in her voice as she says it, as though she doesn’t entirely believe it. He drops his gaze, pressing his palms to his eyes. After a moment, he works them over to the sides of his head, then drops them to meet her eyes again.

She’s still, unwavering. There’s a dare in her eye.

“I want more than this,” he finally says, carefully taking one hand and resting it on her knee.

She doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch. A good sign?

Maybe.

Finally, her veneer cracks - just barely, just enough to give him a glint of hope. She sighs, and her shoulders sag.

“There’s only one way this ends, Deacon.”

“There’s only one way _what_ ends?”

Her face doesn’t seem to change but suddenly he realizes she looks so incredibly sad, so tragic that he wants more than anything to kiss her eyelids, or take a pratfall, or anything, just to wipe the heart-rending look from her face.

“This,” she says, gesturing again, although this time at the world. “Everything. I can’t - I can’t let him keep doing what he’s doing but I also...it means -”

He knows what it means. He’s known from the moment he saw her claw her way out of the vault, her hair messed up and that blue vault suit soaked with melted cryo-gas and sweat. He’d watched her wander down to Sanctuary, holding her hand over her eyes in the glare of the sun, and seen the way her chin wobbled when she talked to her robot.

He watched her for years before she even woke, and for months before she met up with the Railroad; he’s heard the way she tries to help people and he’s seen the soft, squishy heart inside her. And maybe that’s how all this started: if only she could harden, she would be safe. If she was hard and unyielding, she could make the final call.

He’s known it forever; he’s known it since he heard that rumor as a teenager, the one that said Father had a mother still living, frozen in a tomb of a vault up north. He knew then - as he knows now - that she would be the one to bring all this full-circle.

Now looking at her, at the weight of it all on her shoulders, he can’t stop himself from leaning forward and brushing a kiss on her lips. She sits still, neither leaning in nor retreating, and lets him kiss her. She smells of whiskey and clean sweat and salt air, and then she opens her lips to admit his tongue. He tastes her, he nibbles at her bottom lip, and in that moment he gives himself to her, at last. He knows the moment it happens, because her arms come up around his neck, holding him to her so he can feel her heartbeat beneath his own.

They break apart at the sound of quiet cursing at the door. Calavera stands there, shock and annoyance nakedly displayed on her face.

Deacon can’t stop the blush that spreads up over his face and ears before creeping along the back of his head. “Uh, hi,” he says to the dark-haired woman, who rolls her eyes.

“You’re such a cabron,” she says, finally. Behind him, Charmer lets out a snicker.

“Could we, uh, maybe _not_ share this around?”

“Not yet, anyway?” Charmer’s hand on his own sends a thrill through him, down into his stomach.

“It’ll cost you.” Calavera leans against the doorway with a smirk, crossing her arms.

Deacon sighs. Well, of course.

Calavera thinks about it for a moment. Finally, a gruesome grin breaks out on her face, not reaching her eyes. “A case of Fancy Lad Snack Cakes,” she says at last.

Relief floods him. “I can do that -”

“Not a _box_ , pendejo,” Calavera cuts in. “A case. That’s thirty-six.”

A little bit harder, he thinks, but still manageable. Deacon nods, trying to ignore the stifled giggle coming from Charmer. Her body is so close to his, and she’s so warm - all he can think about is burying his face in her neck.

“And a six-pack of Gwinnett stout. All Derby wants is that maldito pale ale bullshit.”

“You got a deal,” he says and she smiles again. Deacon suppresses a shudder.

“In that case…” Calavera turns, swinging the door shut behind her and raising her voice. “No, Derby, I don’t know where they went. Did you check outside?”

He turns back to Charmer, her smile fading.

“I love you,” he says, finally. It hurts to say it out loud, but something about it feels sweet just the same. “We’ll get through it together.”

“He’s my _son_ ,” is all she says.

Barbara flashes in his mind - not the way she looked after, but before, one afternoon when they sat outside by the water, skipping stones and laughing, and she was so beautiful and strong and lovely it broke his heart. He thinks of her in that polka-dotted dress she loved, her shoes off and long toes buried in the sand. Her hair blowing in the breeze.

He knows something of sacrifice, of rolling the boulder up just to watch it come back down on you.

  
And so he kisses Charmer, and he curls his fingers around hers. He wraps his body around her and they lie on the bed, listening to the rain fall. He savors the heat of her body against his and the innocent safeness of holding another person who knows the pain of betrayal, and he whispers to her until she falls asleep.


	14. Bloodshed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve rewritten this so many times I can’t even remember and I give up so here it’s yours now so I can move on with my life. Also, we’re diverging a bit from canon here, so everyone hang onto your hats.
> 
> Oh, and I have a tumblr now? I'm not sure how this thing works but let's be friends or whatever. Search under vlalekat.

_bloodshed_

_noun_

_destruction of life, as in war or murder; slaughter_

 

They’re standing below the Old North Church when Deacon first hears the singing. It’s faint; as they approach the door, the lyrics fade in and out with each waft of the breeze. He touches Charmer’s hand and they stand for a moment, transfixed by the soft melody coming from the steeple.

_Hold me close and hold me fast_

_The magic spell you cast_

_This is la vie en rose_

Charmer steps forward and lays her head on Deacon’s chest as they stand there in the dark, both entangled in the spell of the music. A few more lines come out, halting and beautiful; the woman singing misses a few of the high notes, but somehow that increases the poignant ache in Deacon’s heart as the notes rise and fall. Charmer’s cheek is warm against his chest through the thin fabric of his t-shirt, and he wants nothing more than for this moment to last.

It’s like nothing he’s ever heard before, and after the singing stops and he and Charmer step apart, he’s stunned to see tears glittering in her eyes. He’s about to ask her if she’s okay but she merely takes his hand and opens the door.

As they enter the church there’s a clatter from the stairs in the back. Moments later, Desdemona appears with a bottle of oil and a set of matches in her hands; she must have been re-lighting the lanterns in the steeple.

Suddenly Deacon is ashamed, nervous; he feels he’s intruded on a private moment and - for once - he actually feels a little bad about it. But although she wears an expression of cautious surprise, she doesn’t seem upset. One eyebrow quirks up as she spots Charmer’s hand still nestled in Deacon’s, but before he can drop it, a thin smile forms on her lips.

“Deacon. Charmer,” she nods at them in turn and Deacon can feel his cheeks grow hot. Desdemona pulls a pack of cigarettes from her pocket and lights one, blowing the smoke up to the ceiling.

“That’s one of my favorite songs,” Charmer says and for a moment Deacon is astonished that she’s addressed it. “My husband and I danced to that at our wedding. Before the war.”

Desdemona looks gratified, or at least he thinks she does; it’s hard to tell in the dark of the ruined church. “Thank you,” she says after a moment, her voice softer than its usual strident pitch. “I used to sing it to my son. Every night, before bed.”

“You have a son?”

A nod from Desdemona. “Sam. He loved it - he was...killed. Raiders. Everyone in our settlement was.”

Charmer’s face drops. She looks devastated. Deacon squeezes her hand lightly but she’s a mother too. She knows.

“I’m so sorry.”

“Well,” Desdemona ashes her cigarette and looks back up, her eyes steady as she meets Charmer’s gaze again. “It was a long time ago.” She gestures at their hands. “How long has _this_ been going on?”

Charmer’s pink cheeks match Deacon’s own. He thinks for a moment of dropping her hand but - well, if the cat’s already out of the bag -

“It’s new,” he says.

Desdemona stares at them for what feels like ages but is probably only a few seconds before she nods. “You know I don’t think it’s the brightest idea to get involved with another agent. But I am - well, I suppose I’m happy for you.” She sighs and then says softly, as if to herself, “We should all have some joy in this life.”

Deacon lets out a nervous laugh and he’s about to thank her for her blessing - however uncertain - when the door behind them bangs open and everything goes to hell.

 

* * *

 

After a battle is always the time to take stock. Their position has been compromised - for the second time in a year - and the casualties are overwhelming. They’ll have to find a place to reassemble, a place to lick their wounds and regroup but all Deacon can do is stare at the carnage.

Bodies everywhere. Some of their own, others in power armor and wielding laser weapons. One Brotherhood soldier’s head is pinned to the wall by a railroad spike and completely independent of his body, which lies six feet away. The smell of blood and ozone lie heavy in the air and laser scorches mark nearly every surface. Shrapnel from grenades litters the crypt; he has a burning wound on one arm that he can’t even think about.

He can’t think about any of it because before him lies Glory.

_Glory._

When she’d gone down in the middle of the battle, still shooting her minigun at anything in power armor, he’d been on the other side of the room, hiding behind a desk and sniping whenever he had a clear shot. In a t-shirt and jeans he was dead meat if he stepped out into the line of fire, even with the ballistic weave reinforcement. He’d heard her yell, but Charmer was there, with her overpowered combat rifle and a line of grenades on her belt. He’d thought they’d be fine.

And now she’s dead.

He’s seen so many people die and yet - it’s never felt like this. He was there and yet he wasn’t - he couldn’t - Across the room, he may as well have been miles away. He wasn’t there to speak to her one last time, or to somehow bully her into _not_ dying. No matter what angle he approaches it from, it doesn’t feel _real_.

If he looks over, he can see Charmer’s hand on his wounded arm. Dimly he can hear her little gasp of worry at the sight of his battered skin. But his world has shrunk to this one thing, to the image of his friend on the ground, her blood leaking sluggishly into a dark pond on the ground.

She deserved better, he thinks. So few people grow old in this world, especially in their line of work and yet - if anyone deserved that chance, it was her.

His body feels cold, numb, but he looks at her carefully, trying to memorize the way she looks when she doesn’t breathe; it’s strange to see someone whose body doesn’t move, but her chest doesn’t rise and fall the way it did just ten minutes ago. He looks at the unnatural stillness and he thinks of how she wanted to get a boat and sail south, to see the rest of the world.

All she saw is this one, the Institute and the Commonwealth. All she knew was subjugation and violence.

He looks at her, at the body of his friend, and he knows what has to happen next.

 

* * *

 

There’s too many of them to go to Mercer or Dayton or Marshall, or any of the other safehouses, not without splitting up. They debate heading back to Randolph but the thought of seeing that man again, the one they left alone in that cage to starve to death, is overwhelming in the face of so much death.

Charmer finally suggests Covenant and Desdemona laughs humorlessly at that. The irony of going there - of all places! - shouldn’t be funny in the face of such devastation, but somehow after that everything seems easier. The trip takes the better part of the night and when the survivors arrive, the weakest of them seem likely to collapse. Inside the walls, though, with the turrets clicking along, everyone seems to relax a little. Beds are assigned; Carrington starts bandaging the wounded.

When everyone’s settled in and dawn pinks the horizon, Deacon finds Tinker Tom sitting outside the workshop, anxiously tapping a screwdriver against the peeling red enamel of the workbench.

“Hey Tom,” he says this from nearly ten feet away, his voice pitched quietly so as not to startle the other man, but Tom still drops the screwdriver and jumps in the air, landing back on the stool with a thump.

“Hey man, didn’t see ya there.” Deacon can’t tell if Tom is more skittish than usual; the man is so paranoid it can be impossible to get a good read on him. He puts his hands out in front of him in a placating motion to make it clear that he comes in peace.

“That’s cool, no worries,” Deacon modulates his voice; there’s no need to make Tom even jumpier than he already is, right? “So, I have this, like, _idea._ ”

Tom’s eyebrows raise; he’s already interested.

“To stop the Institute?”

“Well, no, not yet,” Deacon admits. “We’ve got other problems we need to handle before we can really take them on.”

“So the Brotherhood then.”

“Bingo.” Deacon snaps his fingers and gives Tom a set of grade-A finger guns. Tom smiles and climbs off his stool, taking a few steps closer to Deacon. This close he smells of unwashed socks and something else, something unpleasant and metallic, like sucking on old-world pennies.

“What’s the plan?”

“Do you think you could fly a vertibird?”

 

* * *

 

The plan, such as it is, isn’t particularly complicated - they’ll take some charges Tom’s squirrelled away for a special occasion, flatten the Brotherhood stronghold in Cambridge, steal some uniforms and the vertibird on the roof, and fly to the Prydwen. Once there, they’ll bomb the shit out of their battle blimp and, hopefully, make it out alive.

Simple.

They don’t tell anyone what they’re doing; Desdemona is focused on destroying the Institute and doesn’t seem to see that their threats are multiplying. Maybe it’s his own fault; maybe the intel he’s been giving her isn’t detailed enough, doesn’t show her why they Brotherhood is so dangerous, even after this.

Maybe it’s her own way of dealing with the grief.

There’s a bottle of vodka in what used to be the town store here; it speaks the Deacon all through the day and he has trouble sleeping, but he denies it. He keeps hearing Glory in his head, the annoyed tone she had that morning he woke up from his blackout.

_Get your shit together, man._

It rings through his head throughout the day. It’s an echo; it’s a mantra.

It’s an order.

 

* * *

 

They’re just east of Lexington when he hears Charmer’s voice cut through the dark. She’s sitting on the walkway in front of an old nursing home, her face lit by a small fire that flickers in a barrel. He’s not sure how he missed her. Perhaps he’s too distracted by his mission, although what a dangerous and embarrassing mistake to make.

“Out for a stroll?” She’s calm, her face still. Unreadable.

There’s no point in pretending with her; if the last few months have taught him anything, it’s that Charmer always knows when he’s lying.

“We’re going to Cambridge to the police station. We’re going to kill the Brotherhood soldiers there and take their vertibird and then we’re going to fly to their blimp and blow it up.” The way Tinker Tom nods his head along with this makes him realize how crazy it all sounds, but he doesn’t care. All he can think about is Glory.

All he can think about is justice, retaliation.

_Get your shit together, man._

He owes her.

Charmer seems unfazed. “I thought it might be something like that,” is all she says.

Tom is fidgety at his side, nervous. “We really should be getting going. We want to hit the big-ass blimp at breakfast and that’s in just a few hours.” He scans the sky around them.

Charmer doesn’t even look at him; her laser-like gaze is focused entirely on Deacon.

“Is it because you want them eliminated - or because of Glory?”

No point in lying, he reminds himself.

“Can’t it be both?”

Charmer nods. “I guess it can, yeah. Why - why didn’t you ask me to come along?”

Deacon’s surprised. “It didn’t occur to me.” It didn’t; he’s been so consumed with rage and grief and a thousand other frustrations that it never occurred to him she might want to come along for the ride.

“Really?” She smiles faintly. “Even though I’m technically one of them? I can set the charges on the Prydwen without arousing suspicion.”

There’s a twist in Deacon’s stomach at the thought of Charmer, dressed in an orange jumpsuit, risking herself for his revenge. And yet -

It’s also entirely logical. It makes perfect sense for her to be the one to go on the ship, to set the charges in the best possible places. He might blend well in most places, but he’s been anxious about trying to adapt to the Brotherhood look, to their general vibe while on the ship. He’s been actively afraid of arousing suspicion.

It sounds so easy; it sounds _too_ easy.

She stands patiently, waiting for him to work through it, to figure out his feelings about the matter. Tinker Tom is down the road aways, wincing at the brilliant stars above him and murmuring something about terraforming.

He hates it; he loves it. It’s the right thing to do, but the thought of losing her -

“I need to do this,” Charmer breaks through his thoughts in that way she has. He understands it now - it’s not just that she sees through his bullshit, it’s that she sees through it all. She can process things in a detached way that he’s only ever dreamed of but never quite mastered. She’s the most logical choice to go to the Prydwen, and so of course she has to be the one to go.

Clear. Simple.

“Glory - before she died,” she starts, then stops again. “She made me promise that we’d save them. All of them, all of her people.” For the second time in a few days, he can see the glistening of tears in her eyes, and the pain in her face is an intricately forlorn thing.

“I need to do this,” Charmer repeats. Her hand is in his own, small and strong and insistent.

He can’t deny her this, even though it throws the entire mission against the Institute into jeopardy. He can’t.

He loves her too much.

“Then we go in together,” he says.

A tear twinkles as it finally falls from her eye and makes its way down her cheek, leaving a pale track as it goes. He wants to kiss her, wonders if this will be the last time because what are the three of them going to do against the entire goddamn Brotherhood of fucking Steel? He wants to turn around and go back to Covenant, to hide his head in the ground and pretend none of it has ever happened.

  
But his hand is in hers, and she gives a strong squeeze that brings him back to earth. When she begins walking, he follows, and they make their way to the police station, where the path to their revenge waits.


	15. Revenge

_ revenge _

_ noun _

_ the action of inflicting hurt or harm on someone for an injury or wrong suffered at their hands _

_ or: a form of personal payback not sanctioned by law, often in larger proportion than the gravity of the wrong initially committed _

 

The Prydwen looms huge above them, all rusted steel and bright lights, and not for the first time, Deacon feels a small voice in the back of his head question this plan, question whether he can truly send Charmer in there. Send her or let her go? Does it even matter? 

It’s not as if anyone ‘lets’ Charmer do anything.

He sees Glory again, a faint image burned against the inside of his eyelids, her body unnaturally still, her eyes closed. He sees the blood that spilled from her ponding around her and splattered against the brick. 

This was  _ his _ plan, he tells himself.  _ He _ should be the one to do it.

She looks the part, though, no denying that. After the battle for the police station she scavenged a uniform, including some official-looking combat armor, and twisted her hair into a knot at the back of her head. With the orange flightsuit and the emblem on her chest, she looks official; certainly more than he and Tom do. The two of them have put on flight suits and jackets and hoods as well, but with Tom’s off-centered gaze, he doesn’t look military. Deacon’s sure he’s not any better and so - despite the growing pit in his stomach - he’s decided to keep his mouth shut.

The whole ride he’s woozy, dizzy, nervous. He’s not sure if it’s the fact that another woman that he cares out - one he loves - is walking into a death trap, or if it’s the fact that he’s so far off the ground that even Trinity Tower looks like a toy, but he can barely keep down his bile.

He’s going to die, he knows it. Worse, he’s going to take Tom and Charmer with him.

Tom can’t quite seem to keep the bird steady and Deacon wants to scream, deep in his chest, but instead just asks as calmly as he can if Tom could keep it more steady. Tom’s reply is terse, aggravated, and Deacon can feel a bead of sweat roll down his back as he realizes he’s in so far over his head he’s not sure if he can even fake this. 

He looks over at Charmer, although he’s not sure why - reassurance? comfort? - and instead of giving him either she looks mildly amused and cool as a cucumber. Nothing about her demeanor says that she’s about to go in the Prydwen on a suicide mission. 

Somehow - he’s not sure how, but  _ somehow _ \- he keeps his voice steady as he calls the main ship, requesting clearance to land. When the flight controller calls back that Claymore is cleared to land on bay three, his heart about stops in his chest.

It’s happening. It’s really - it’s  _ happening. _ Excitement and terror grip him, warring over his emotions. 

When they ask for an update on the police station he bluffs through it, though Charmer raises one slim, dark eyebrow at his tone and for a moment Deacon wonders if he shouldn’t have simply given her the radio. 

No, that doesn’t make sense, he reminds himself. She wouldn’t be talking to them. According to her intel, knights - what she is, apparently - don’t fly vertibirds. They’d  _ know _ . 

And then the voice on the other end that he can  _ see _ them, that their docking port isn’t open and Deacon knows this is the end. They’re all going to die. Worse, first they’ll probably be court-martialed or something, which seems infinitely more painful.

His mouth makes up something about technical difficulties before he can entirely engage his brain and then - presto! Like magic, they’re invited to dock. 

They land, shakily, and Charmer turns away from him to jump down onto the landing bay. He looks at her and her face is somehow amused, as if the whole thing is a big joke. He can see a smile in her eyes even though her lips stay flat, and something about this reassures him. 

If they’re going to die, at least they’ll go down fighting.

He leans forward to kiss her but she scoots back, turning her body towards the landing bay, snaking out of his grasp before he can reach her.

“They might see,” she says, gesturing subtly to the power-armored guards standing near a door down the narrow walkway. 

“This might be -” 

“It won’t be. Trust me.” She winks at him, her face calm, and pats the explosives on her belt. Before he can think about what he’s doing, he lifts his glasses to look at her properly, without the dark reflected lenses skewing his perception. She looks beautiful and strong and serene, every inch a Brotherhood soldier. 

She jumps down, landing easily on the metal walkway and walks away without turning back, just another soldier on a mission.

 

* * *

It feels like it takes forever for her to return, and Deacon has just steeled himself to climb down - long drop to the ground if he misses, but don’t think about that - and go in there after her when the door to the ship opens and Charmer steps out.

He’s never been so glad to see anyone in all his life, and then she pauses, turns to the power-armored guard next to her. From this distance, he can’t hear what’s happening, but it appears she’s talking to one of the human sentry bots guarding the door. She laughs, head tilted back, and he steps back, into the vertibird, wondering at how she looks so smooth, so natural when she knows they’ve got just moments until the whole thing blows up in their faces. She lets out another laugh and starts down the stairs and his heart is hammering in his chest.

They’ve got to go, they’ve got to go, they’ve got to  _ fly _ , he thinks. His stomach churns.

She walks back to them quickly - maybe a shade too quickly, the guard seems to raise his weapon and Deacon wishes he could see inside their tin heads, but then Charmer is climbing up beside him and he gives Tom the okay.

The propellers start and he turns to her, turns to the stunning smile on her face, and he asks her. “We seriously didn’t raise an alarm?”

She shakes her head slowly as the vertibird rattles around them, preparing for take-off.

“I guess I trained you well,” he says, wincing slightly as she swats him on the arm, but then he’s kissing her. They’re flying away and the ship is going to blow any time, but all he can think about is the way her lips feel on his, warm and yielding and soft. Her tongue is in his mouth and he wraps an arm around her, pulling her close to him, resenting the hard shell of the combat armor on her chest. Tom is talking to himself and Deacon realizes that they’re still docked, still waiting to fly away -

“Tom, man, you gotta step on it,” he says, ripping his face from Charmer’s lips, the nervousness building inside him again.

“I’m trying,” Tom wails from the front, and he is - he’s flipping switches and pressing buttons and there’s a heavy clanging as the guard from the door starts marching down the narrow walkway towards them, weapon held up as if he’s getting ready to shoot.

Uh-oh.

But then it doesn’t matter - the vertibird lifts, and they’re moving away. He can’t help himself; he waves good-bye to the guard. It’s not a Brotherhood wave, either, all stiff and stern and humorless. No it’s a full-fledged Deacon-style wave, the arm that isn’t wrapped around Charmer wide over his head and the guard pauses mid-step and for a moment he feels a twinge of guilt.

That guard is a  _ person _ . They’re  _ killing people _ today. Because of him, because of his plan.

Because of his anger, his  _ rage _ , over Glory.

He has time for a moment of regret, of wishing he’d done things differently, and he’s debating asking Tom to go back so they can warn the Brotherhood, no matter the consequences, because this isn’t just  _ murder _ , it’s a  _ massacre _ and then -

Tom hits the button. 

Charmer grips his hand and gives a small squeeze. Deacon looks over and meets her eyes, and her gaze is steady; it makes him feel safe. 

“For Glory,” she says softly, and they both turn to look out the window. 

The explosion is huge, brighter even than the morning sun rising just behind the ship. It’s dazzling, brilliant; if it weren’t for the fact that he just sentenced so many people to death, it’d be beautiful. The metal gleams in the firelight; the sun reflects off the flames and small particles start falling to the ground, landing in the ocean, on the airport. He thinks of the holotape he saw once of fireworks and wonders if they were something like this: exquisite and dangerous, streaks of flame falling from the sky.    


There’s a shockwave that takes almost a minute to hit them. The vertibird sways dangerously in the air and he feels his stomach turn over again. Charmer gives his hand another squeeze, and he realizes he’s stopped breathing and starts again.

He can hear Glory in his head again.

_ Take care of yourself. _

“Rest easy, Glory,” he tells her. He knows she can’t hear him, knows that there’s no reason to talk to dead people, and yet somehow he feels lighter. Despite the carnage, despite the fact that revenge isn’t supposed to make you feel better but instead worse, he does - he feels safe, now. 

Safe, and ready to continue forward on their warpath.

 

* * *

It takes them some time to find a safe place to land, and then they have to walk back to Covenant. Along the way the three of them drop their Brotherhood gear and change back into normal clothes, or whatever passes for normal. By the time they return to the interim HQ, it’s after dark again and Deacon can feel his ass dragging. The last thing he wants to deal with is getting reamed out, but Desdemona won’t wait.

He knows the look on her face. Tightly drawn lips and eyes narrowed, her eyebrows slanted downwards and a cigarette held in a deathgrip in one hand. She’s furious.

“You have some nerve sending a Brotherhood scribe here,” she says the moment they walk through the gate. For a moment, Deacon is confused; he and Tom look at each other in surprise, but then Charmer steps forward. Her head is held high, her chin up. She’s either feeling very righteous or she’s faking it well, and Deacon’s not sure which it is.

“I felt Haylen would be an asset to us,” she says simply. 

“Did you?” Desdemona’s voice is a snarl. “What makes you -”

“She’s sympathetic to our cause. She helped me save a synth that had somehow joined the Brotherhood and I felt it only right to offer her the chance to live.”

Desdemona stops, stunned into silence. Finally, “What do you mean, ‘to live’?”

Now it’s Deacon’s turn to speak. “We...well, we may have eliminated the Brotherhood presence in the Commonwealth.”

Desdemona raises an eyebrow but he can see her cooling down. She takes a drag on her cigarette and exhales smoke, her face knitting itself into a contemplative expression.

“Really?” 

Tinker Tom nods. “Yeah, we went up there and blew their ship sky-high. Or, well, it was already in the sky, but,” he shrugs, “you know.”

“It was a hell of a thing,” Deacon chimes back in. 

Desdemona looks between the three of them carefully, thinking. Processing. With a sigh, she finally steps back and allows them inside the walls. 

“I should go see Haylen,” Charmer says, slipping past them and, when Desdemona points the way, up the hill to the house at the end. Des closes the gate behind them, swinging the heavy latch shut. 

“Do you trust her?” The smoke from her cigarette coils around Desdemona’s face. 

“I don’t know her,” Deacon admits. From up the hill he can hear a woman crying. “But I trust Charmer. She wouldn’t bring anyone in here unless she was sure.”

A nod from his boss. “That’s what I think, too. I was just - surprised.”

 

* * *

There’s too many people for true privacy in Covenant, but with a series of houses instead of one large crypt, at least there’s more than there used to be. Deacon sits on the edge of a bed, pulling his boots off carefully and taking stock of the collection of new and fascinating blisters on his feet. He thinks of the way Charmer insisted on going into the police station alone. He’d wanted to go with her, as backup, but she’d told him to wait ten minutes and then come.

He wonders how many Brotherhood soldiers she told to get out. Was this scribe the only one? Would more crop up later?

At least ten of them died in the building, and one out front; he saw their corpses, their faces frozen forever in anguished pain. In surprise. 

It had made him think of her, of Charmer in her glass box, frozen forever until someone let her out. 

Regret again, that furtive and vicious tease, tugs at him and he lets out a groan, shaking his head. He may have assassinated an entire wing of a major military order today, but he refuses to feel bad about it. Betrayal nips in then - why didn’t Charmer tell him she spared this woman? What else is she hiding?

The door to the bedroom opens and Charmer steps in, closing it softly behind herself. They’re supposed to share this room with another agent who’s on watch duty now, but there are people sleeping in the living room, and he’s grateful for her consideration of others.

He can’t be mad at her for saving this Haylen, he realizes. She did what she felt was right; a scribe, she told him once, was a non-combatant. So, not a fighter - a medic, a healer. And if she was sympathetic -

Regret claws at him again and this time it’s harder to force away. He looks at her, at the lovely woman standing before him, rinsing her face and wiping herself with a towel and he has to know.

“Was she the only one?”

Charmer stops; her back goes rigid. He can see her in the mirror, can see the way she’s carefully controlling her face. When she turns to him, her expression is still, tranquil, but he saw that moment of doubt. Of scheming.

“No,” she says simply. “But she’s the only one who fled. The others -”

He believes her. For the first time, he sees the weight this day has taken on her, and he reaches out, taking her hand in his own, pulls her gently towards him so that she stands between the v of his legs.

“How is she dealing with...you know?” He won’t say massacre. He won’t. It’s too honest, too true.

Charmer settles her hands on his shoulders and looks down at him with a shrug. “They were her family. They were wrong, but she still  _ cared _ about them.”

“Is she going to…?” He doesn’t need to go on.

“No,” she shakes her head. “She’s with us now.” Her voice is so certain, so sure, that Deacon lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“Tomorrow -”

“It’s not tomorrow yet,” she says, one of her hands making its way over the back of his head, her nails light and tickling on his scalp. He closes his eyes and pulls her close, leaning his face in between the soft swells of her breasts. She holds him, her arms wrapped around his neck and shoulders, and he breathes her in softly. There’s a feeling of inevitability around her, of predetermination. 

Of destiny.

He was always meant to be here, he realizes. With her. 

Deacon leans back, looking up at her, and she smiles down at him. He relaxes his grip on her waist, instead using his hands to firmly grip her ass, and pulls her down to kiss him. She lets out a giggle and follows him, her lips pressing against his firmly as her body slides down to flatten against his own. His every nerve seems to be awake and on fire, and he leans back onto the bed, bringing her with him.

If this is the last night before they go into the Institute, he’s going to make it worthwhile. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't kill Haylen, ya'll. She's too sweet.


	16. Homecoming

_ homecoming _

_ noun _

_ the return of a group of people usually on a special occasion to a place formerly frequented or regarded as home _

 

Deacon doesn’t kiss her goodbye. He wants to, desperately, and now that Desdemona and Tom know now what’s been happening between him and Charmer, it’s a given that the rest of the Railroad probably does, too. The anguished look she gives him in that moment before she relays out of Covenant is anxious and longing and he wants to console her, to run his hands through her black hair and cradle her small body in his arms. 

But there’s something too that reminds him of Glory, of the terror of saying good-bye. The finality of a “last kiss” before they go into battle makes his skin crawl.

He’s already decided that they’re coming out of this together; if he kisses her goodbye he’ll be admitting to himself that there’s a chance they aren’t. He’s always been a good liar, even to himself; just because he’s started telling the truth sometimes is no reason he has to do it all the time. 

Sometimes lies are easier than the truth.

When it’s time for the rest of them to relay in, Deacon’s in the first group. There’s the weightlessness he remembers from his earlier trip, when he fled; there’s tugging and pulling, the sensation of all his molecules ricocheting into each other, through each other, before snapping back into place. There’s a moment before he can see anything other than blinding blue-white light, then he and Tom and Des are standing together in the relay room. Both of them look as nauseated as he feels, his stomach not just turned into knots but possibly mixed up with a kidney or his heart. 

He urges the other two out of the relay so that Charmer, fiddling with the controls, can beam in the next small group. Tom runs to the trashcan next to the main terminal and he can hear the man heaving and the wet sounds of something landing in the bin. 

Charmer’s beautiful, focused as she is over the controls at the massive relay terminal. Around her are corpses, a couple scientists bleeding out next to several gen-2s leaking some sort of oil onto the floor. He wants to grasp her hand but doesn’t dare do more than brush her arm gently. If he holds her too close, he’ll never let go. 

Though he’d always known what this would mean, he can’t look at the faces of the scientists on the ground; he’s sure he’ll know them. He probably grew up with them. 

Now he’s helped to kill them.

 

* * *

 

Going home is never easy, less so when everyone’s shooting at you. Deacon follows Charmer through Bioscience and into a large atrium, trying not to let his mouth drop open at the clear glass and polished steel surfaces, trying not to get hit by stray laser fire, trying to make sure no one gets to her. Was it always like this? He’s been gone so long he can’t really be sure. 

He remembers an atrium, remembers small saplings planted when he was a boy that must have grown into these lush and beautiful trees. His memories of it are smaller, dimmer, less imposing but just as sterile.

“He asked me to be the next Director,” Charmer had told him the evening before. She’d had one short leg slung casually over his waist. He’d been tracing his hand over the network of faint white stretch marks that scored her pale skin like tiger stripes, and she’d shivered at his touch, leaning her face into his neck. 

“Are you going to be able to -”

She’d propped herself up on one elbow and the sudden motion had made him quiet. Her eyes had been dark, her expression unreadable through her black lashes.

“He’s my son. I’ll  _ never _ be okay with this. But...I have to do this.” He knew that tone, knew the way she stilled her face so he couldn’t translate her thoughts meant that the topic wasn’t open for discussion, and so he’d kissed her instead, twining his rough fingers in with hers, gently thumbing the callous of her trigger finger, and pulled her down on top of him.

He shouldn’t be thinking of that now, not with the intense scorch of laser fire whipping over his shoulder, but he looks at her, at the way her hair flips over one shoulder when she turns to fire at a gen-1 blocking the stairwell. She darts forward, head low, body almost hugging the floor, and when the beam hits her he’s not sure who he hears yelling; it could be her, or could be his own voice, and he races recklessly to her, the ghost of Glory on his tail.

Deacon helps her up, guides her to cover at the foot of the spiraling staircase that leads to the Director’s Quarters, and examines her. She’s panting, her breath coming in pained gasps, and her blood blooms scarlet and burgundy through the singed fabric on her shoulder. It was a direct hit, but it doesn’t look fatal and he lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. 

“Is it bad?” Her eyes are trained on his, not on her wound. He rifles through his pockets to find something, anything, to use as a bandage and comes up with a handkerchief. He pushes it against the wound and Charmer lets out a hot puff of breath and bites her bottom lip. He presses down gently, not wanting to hurt her but just wanting to stop her bleeding and oh,  _ fuck, _ there’s just  _ so much _ blood seeping from her now. She lets out another gasp and then sits up partway, sliding her hand under his to apply more pressure to the wound. Her hand is steady under his, and he realizes that he’s shaking, and not just his hand; his knees have gone wobbly and his teeth are chattering.

“Thought I lost you there for a moment,” Deacon says softly, and Charmer lets out a pained laugh. The fingers on her hand are spattered with blood, but he can’t focus on that now. All he can see is her wide dark eyes.

“I still have work to do, you know that. It’s not like me to die when there’s still something I need to cross off my to-do list.”

If she’s joking she must be feeling a little better already, but just to be sure, Deacon pulls the emergency stimpak from his pocket and takes the plastic cap off the syringe. He’s ready to inject it into her shoulder when she puts her hand over his, shaking her head back and forth in a silent no.

“But -” 

“You might need it later.”

Charmer puts her blood-stained hand over his and curls her fingers shut. When he’s put it back in his pocket she uses his hand to steady herself and slides up the wall to standing. They pause there for a moment, a moment of calm in the melee beyond them and for a moment he thinks of kissing her again, but then Desdemona is darting up to them with a grim look on her face. 

“Hey, lovebirds,” she says breathlessly, her chest heaving, “You need to get moving.”

As they head up the stairs, Deacon looks back at Des, at the fight below, at the darkening smear of blood that travels up the sterile steel wall left where Charmer was standing only a moment before.

 

* * *

 

She goes in to see her son alone. Deacon doesn’t want to see the old man, or maybe he does; he can’t decide and either way, it doesn’t matter. They may have lived here together but Father isn’t his family.

He waits outside the door, standing watch with his back to the wall, watching the stairs for trouble, gun drawn and trying not to listen, trying not to look at the smears of her blood on his hands. The time crawls, or maybe it passes so fast it trips over itself; it seems like his brain can’t process all the stimulation it’s receiving at once, the deluge of raw data and the contradictory feelings hitting him all at once. 

Eventually he hears the evacuation order blasting through the building, and for a moment, Deacon is dizzy with the memory of the drills they ran when he was a child, the way everyone would take orderly routes up to the relay room and pretend to go out before returning to their duties. The calm looks on the adults’ faces were so reassuring as a child, so out of line with the blaring warning, and he’d never thought, growing up, that the Institute would come crashing down. He’d never though the evacuation order would actually be used.

When Charmer comes out, she looks smaller, sadder. There are pale tracks down her cheeks and a single tear still glitters from one corner eyelash. He reaches up and cups her chin in his hand, thinking distractedly of how small her head is, and thumbs the water away, letting it sink into his skin. She leans her face into his palm and for a moment he thinks of the moment he discovered that she existed, that there was a person being kept frozen “just in case.” The horror of it, even though it was so minimal compared to all the other crimes they committed daily - a lie not even snuffed out but just put permanently into storage. 

And now she stands before, now she nuzzles him, softly, and he closes his eyes for a moment, leans against the cool wall, and wonders at the improbability of her. 

There’s the clatter of footsteps from above and they separate, eyes meeting and guns drawn, but it’s two families fearfully herding their children down the stairs, barely sparing a glance for Deacon and Charmer pressed against the wall. They watch them go, Charmer’s gaze wistful as she looks at the children, and then she stands up straight, stifling a grimace. Her good hand is still pressing the bandage to her shoulder and she winces as she draws her gun, holding it in her left hand uncomfortably. The idea of her using her bad hand, her non-dominant hand, to shoot makes Deacon nervous, but he knows better than to say anything when she has that look on her face.

“We have to the reactor,” she says then, heading down the stairs. 

Deacon spares a glance at the door, wonders what exactly happened in there; secrets make him crazy when they’re not his own, but she’ll tell him when she’s ready.

If she’s ever ready. 

 

* * *

 

The reactor room is hot with radiation and laser fire. There’s a large number of synths there with weapons, the ones assigned to go down with the ship, and again, Deacon thinks of Glory, of the promise Charmer made to her. 

_ Promise me you’ll free them.  _

He blinks as he takes aim, wishing he could, but he knows there’s no way they’ll ever stop fighting. They’re programmed to keep going, to keep defending their home and their masters until they’re dead. He hates himself for every shot he takes, and when any of them fall, the the debt he owes Glory grows. By the time they’re all down, the yawning chasm of grief in his chest threatens to swallow him whole. 

Charmer pauses, peeks out from behind the desk she’s been using as a shield, and looks around the floor at the bodies before them. Her mouth is drawn into a thin line, and Deacon wonders if he looks as shell-shocked as she does. 

“So much death,” she says, voice flat, as she straightens and checks her weapon. Deacon follows her lead, standing and stretching and trying not to think. 

“We did what we had to.”

A nod from her, even though her face is unconvinced. 

He gestures to the reactor. “I guess it’s time to…”

Charmer nods again and begins walking towards the catwalk. There’s the sound of footsteps from the hall, and Deacon turns, wondering if it’s Des catching up with them, why she’s down here when she’s supposed to be at the relay. When he sees the phalanx of skeletal gen-1s approaching, time slows. He turns back to Charmer, sees the way her face stiffens as she registers what’s happening, as she scrambles to ready her .44. She’s slow with her blood-stained fingers, her alternate hand clumsy and his heart drops into his stomach. 

In the next heartbeat he looks back at the door and lifts his pistol. Fires, taking down one of the gen-1s in the second row with a perfect shot to the head, one that he’d be proud of if he wasn’t so despondent and sick of the violence.

Another heartbeat and he’s aiming again, but the synth in the front has Charmer in its line of fire. She’s still fumbling with her weapon, a quiet curse coming from her mouth.

Before Deacon can think about what he’s doing he’s abandoned shooting and he leaps, high in the air, directly in the path of the laser.

It sears everything it touches, and he can feel pain blossoming from the center of his chest. His ribs ache, his skin crackling like meat on a spit. For a long moment, he’s airborne and then he comes crashing back down, landing on his side and his shoulder aches where it connects with the floor. The sharp, hot agony in his chest smolders, and he dimly registers the smell of cooking meat; he skids across the floor and crashes into something - the stairs? A desk? Whatever it is, it’s hard and metal and cold and oh, fuck fuck  _ fuck _ , this hurts.

The last things he hears before he passes out are a woman screaming and his own voice, as if from miles away.

“I’m sorry.”

  
Then a blast so loud it makes everything else silent, and everything goes black. 


	17. Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end, folks. Thanks to everyone who had fun on this ride with me - it’s been a great time writing this and knowing that something I created touched so many people. Special thanks to everyone who took the time to give me feedback on this - like a cat, I thrive on attention (and may lie on your keyboard to get it).
> 
> I have a couple new somethings in the pipeline and am looking for a betareader or two. If you’re interested, contact me on tumblr and we’ll get the ball rolling. ;)

_truth_

_noun_

_the body of real things, events, and facts_

_or: sincerity in action, character, and utterance (archaic)_

 

He’s not Deacon anymore. With the Institute gone, the Railroad...well, they haven’t disbanded exactly, but by the time he came to four days later, Desdemona had decided that with the threat gone, they could all be themselves again, the people they had been before they joined the fight. It starts with names; slowly the agents take up their old identities like discarded clothes left on the floor. Desdemona’s real name turns out to be Marianne, Drummer Boy is Alex; Tinker Tom, as it turns out, actually _is_ named Tom. Calavera tells everyone to fuck off when they ask her for her birth name, and so Calavera she stays.

Charmer wrinkles her nose the first time he calls her Momoko, and so he starts calling her Peaches. She laughs at that, and he thinks of the first time he slipped, that warm day in December when he called her a peach, and he slides his hand over hers.

When they ask the man who used to be Deacon what they should call him now, he doesn’t have an answer for them. He’s had so many names in his life but none of them seem to fit anymore; each one of them has been discarded like a snakeskin and he’s left, nameless and lost, in his hospital bed in Covenant.

He wonders if this is right, he worries that maybe they’ve jumped the gun in their hurry to pick up what’s left of their old lives, their scrapped identities. There are still Institute scientist out there. Des - Marianne - tells him he’s paranoid, that he’s startling at shadows and he isn’t sure which one them is right.

Each day, Charmer - Peaches - sits with him, despite his bad temper, despite the way he growls and groans in pain. One day, desperate for him to feel some relief, she gives him a dose of Med-X and the high is so intense that even though it holds the misery at bay, he begs her to let him feel it all. He’s afraid that if he takes another dose, he’ll chase it with a third, a fourth, a fifth, that he’ll lose what’s left of himself in a swirling euphoric abyss. So he suffers, and he snipes, and then he feels guilty and apologizes. When she smiles tightly at him and runs her hand over his scalp to feel the baby hairs growing in, he wonders how he got so damn lucky.

 

* * *

 

The Institute is gone, but there’s still hundreds of synths out there unprepared for the violence of the real world, and so when he’s finally up to walking three weeks later, he insists on going back out into the field. Dr. Carrington clicks his tongue and gives him the beginning of a lecture about healing, but Deacon puts on his sunglasses and grabs his cane and makes his way slowly to the clinic door, barely resisting the urge to flip the good doctor the bird on his way out.

Somehow it became fall while he was horizontal; the sky has that golden tinge that autumn in the Commonwealth always has, the air so crisp that makes him want to take deep breaths, no matter how much it hurts.

Carrington said he died when they got back to Covenant; apparently he was dead for three minutes. It might have happened sooner if Peaches hadn’t used both their emergency stimpaks on him. He supposes, staring at the cloudless sky, that she made the right decision, refusing to allow him to stimpak her earlier that day. It’s hard to decide, really; after spending his life fighting for this, he still never thought he’d succeed.

He knows now what all those old-world widgets feel like. Obsolete before he’s even fifty; what a strange sensation..

Walking this far already has him winded; he casts his eyes about and finds a bench next to the door. He cautiously maneuvers himself down the stairs and over to it before dropping bonelessly into the unforgiving plastic. He’s joked about being old before, but this is the first time he really feels it; the ache in his chest is bad enough, but his joints all feel sore, and the flesh on his chest prickles and itches where an enormous, angry scar is forming.

Better than dead, though. Right?

A boy approaches. He’s seen the child looking curiously through the windows at him. Shaun. A synth made to look like Father at ten years old, one final perplexing fucking experiment - or is he a gift? - for Charmer.

Peaches? Momoko?

The boy is small for his age, or for the average ten year-old, at any rate. His hair is black, like his mother’s, and his dark eyes are fringed with the same lashes as Peaches’. He watches Deacon with the same guarded gaze, and he smiles slightly as he walks over. Same crooked grin, higher on one side than the other.

He holds a bottle in his hand and presents it to Deacon shyly, as if he’s worried Deacon might smack him, or snatch it away. The glass is chilled, and the boy has already opened the cap. Thoughtful; he doesn’t think he could manage a cap right now. Deacon takes a sip, grateful for the sweetness of the cola on his tongue after so many weeks of dry mouth and bland water. He smiles slightly at the boy and pats the seat next to him.

Shaun sits just far enough away from him so that their knees don’t bump.

“I’m Shaun,” he says, smiling timidly. Deacon offers him the bottle and the boy takes it and sips thoughtfully. “My mom calls you Deacon. Is that what I should call you?”

His mom. His _mom_. Peaches. He has a vague memory of her telling him she didn’t know what to do about the synthetic boy - it hurt so much to have him near, but she couldn’t stand the thought of sending him away - but it’s distorted by pain. Deacon guesses she’s decided to keep him around, despite her conflicted feelings.

“I guess…” he starts, and then stops. The boy hands him back the bottle and he takes another drink. “I don’t really know.”

This earns him a giggle, and the boy’s shoulders relax. “You don’t know your own name?”

Deacon cracks a smile. His chest hurts, but he can see why the boy thinks this is funny; if it weren’t him, he might think it was, too. “No, I guess I don’t. How about...Uncle Sunglasses?”

Shaun takes the bottle again and takes a long drink, eyeing him thoughtfully. “No, that’s silly.”

This is true, Deacon thinks.

“What about Pears?” Shaun’s suggestion confuses him.

“Why?”

“Well, if my mom is Peaches, then why can you be Pears?”

This is so adorable it startles a painful laugh from Deacon. He tries not to wince, but he sees the boy’s eyes trained carefully on him anyway. Doesn’t miss much, Deacon thinks. Just like his mother.

No surprise there.

“Does it hurt very badly?” Shaun’s eyes are on the place where Deacon’s shirt buttons, at the ruined red skin visible just above his collar.

“Nah,” Deacon lies, grimacing as he accepts the soda bottle back from Shaun. He takes a sip and tries to think of what to say. “Maybe a little.”

Shaun’s face is sympathetic.

“My mom said you saved her life.” Deacon feels a flickering pride when he hears this, a tender heat in his chest, behind the pain. He nods, thinking of the look on Charmer’s - Peaches’, dammit - face when he leapt in front of her, and the sizzle of his skin roasting.

He’d do it again in a heartbeat.

“That’s really brave,” Shaun says, and the flickering pride turns into a warm wash down his arms and legs. He can feel his cheeks turning pink and hot.

“She would’ve done the same for me.”

They sit for a few minutes, watching the Railroad agents going about their business. Somewhere above them, over the wall, there’s a bird singing.

“Mom says -” Shaun stops, his cheeks flushing. It’s cute. Deacon can’t believe he keeps forgetting the kid is a synth, a replica of Father.

A second chance? Maybe.

“What is it, buddy?” Deacon leans back against the bench and digs in his pockets for his cigarettes and lighter.

“She says you used to live in the Institute, like me.”

“I sure did,” Deacon drops the smokes back in his pocket. He shouldn’t do that in front of the boy.

“Was it hard? What you first moved up here?”

He sighs, trying to think back that far. He remembers being scared, being unprepared; nothing in his life before had prepared him for the total shithole that the Commonwealth was compared to where he’d grown up. The first two months, everything he ate made him sick and he couldn’t so much as fire a gun. He’s still surprised now that he even survived.

“It was pretty scary,” he acknowledges, unsure of how much to share.

“Can I talk to you sometimes? If I’m scared, or, like, homesick? No one else here really...understands.They just keep telling me how lucky I am.”

The boy looks up, away from Deacon, at a tree partway up the hill and continues, “Sometimes I miss it there.”

There’s a prickle in the corner of Deacon’s eye as he looks down at Shaun’s narrow shoulders, at the paleness of his skin. He wonders if Shaun - the first Shaun, the one who grew up to be Father - was like this as a child. Something in him thinks not, that somehow he’d lost his humanity alarmingly early.

Strange to think this mechanical boy, made in a lab, is more human than the person that created him.

“Of course, we can talk any time you need to,” he says, his voice cracking slightly. Shaun grins and take the Nuka-Cola out of Deacon’s hands, drinks the last of it, and runs to a nearby trashcan to throw it away. When he comes back, it’s clear he has one more question.

“Hey, uh...Deacon?”

“Yeah, buddy?”

“You’re not going anywhere, right?”

No, Deacon thinks as he tries to find a comfortable position on the bench. He thought he would be ready to go back out with Peaches soon, but just this little jaunt into the sunshine has proven how incredibly misguided he was. He’s already exhausted, and his chest is killing him. If he made it down the road, even a baby mirelurk could chew him up.

“I’m not planning on it.” Another smile from Shaun.

“Great. Well, I’ll see you later.” The boy runs down the hill to grab a ball, and then out of sight, to play.

 

* * *

 

It’s another month before he’s able to travel safely, before he can handle a gun and doesn’t feel like a strong wind might knock him over. Afternoons grow chillier, and at night it’s actually cold. He moves out of the clinic and back into the house with Peaches and Shaun. Finally, one day, they set out for Sanctuary. He has to take his time and Shaun is a child, so they walk slowly down the road, the three of them chatting as Peaches scans the area around them for threats.

Sanctuary is different than the last time he was there. A town has grown up where before there were only ruins; the destroyed houses have been repaired and a motley collection of tin and wood structures have been erected to provide additional housing. At the town center, around a big oak tree, are shops and stalls open for business; on the concrete pad where a house used to be is even a bar. A farm has grown up on the sloping hill littered with the skeletons of old playground equipment; water purifiers sit in the river, powered by rumbling generators.

Peaches’ house from before the war is gone. In its place is a new, two-story wooden structure. Inside is a loft bedroom for the boy and even a composting toilet. Deacon tries not to let on his surprise that someone leveled the old place; it had been in fairly good shape.

He can’t help it, though; here, in her old neighborhood, he feels like an interloper. Shaun at least is a synthetic copy of her own son. He is nothing, in no way related to her former life. He’d thought coming here would make him feel better, but somehow - instead, he walks around town each day, gathering his strength and wondering why he’s even still here.

Gradually, synths from the Institute begin trickling into town, sometimes escorted by former Railroad agents. Sometimes they know who and what they are; other times their memories have been wiped. He finds some solace, some purpose, in helping them find work and build a life together. As he walks around town in the evenings, people nod at him, or smile. The more he walks and works, the easier it is; he doesn’t need to use the cane at all anymore, and pain of the wound in his chest begins to recede.

Some afternoons he and Shaun play ball together, and the way the boy laughs makes him feel warm for the first time since they rode the relay down. It’s like he’s never played before - which, when he stops to consider it, may be true. Peaches is distant, busy; most nights she sleeps on the couch instead of with him, and more than once he’s heard her crying in the night.

He knows the feeling.

Deacon begins walking farther and farther from town. Each day he goes out, wandering; he’s not sure what he’s looking for until he sees it, up on the hill overlooking the vault. His camp, just the same as he left it, if a bit weathered after being unoccupied for two years. The white symbol for “ally” is chipped and fading; the tin of mac ‘n’ cheese he left is still intact, despite some toothmarks in the lid. He brushes some leaves off the chair and sits down in it.

From here, he can see the whole valley. There’s the rusted equipment around the vault elevator, and the town of Sanctuary below. The sky is clear blue with just a few puffy clouds to the southwest; probably there will be a radstorm tonight.

A crunching of leaves, and then Peaches walks up behind him. There isn’t another place to sit, so she stands beside him, looking out at the view.

“You weren’t kidding when you said you were always on my side, were you?” He can hear the smirk in her voice. Something about it makes him think of the days before they destroyed the world again, of the woman she was before she killed her son, before he destroyed his home. He reaches his arm up, wrapping it carefully around her waist, and she sways, leaning her hip into his cheek.

“I may have spent some time up here waiting for you.”

“Mmm, sure looks like it.”

Overhead a crow cries.

“I’m sorry I’ve been...different.”

“I don’t know why you’re saying that to me.” It’s true; he doesn’t. Of course she’s been different. Her whole life was taken away, and then she had to destroy it again. He can understand that. He runs his hand down her leg, feeling the muscles through the soft fabric of her pants, and she wraps her arm around the top of his head, running her fingers through the gingery strands. It feels nice. He leans his head back and looks up at her.

“I guess I just want you to know that I don’t blame you for...everything. Anything. I still want this. I still want _you._ ”

A smile takes over his face, his body processing what she’s saying before his brain does.

“I want you, too,” he says, grabbing her hip more firmly and turning her so she’s standing in front of him. She gives him her own smile and lifts first one leg and then the other over his lap to sit carefully, facing him, her legs dangling off the back of the chair. Her face fills his vision.

“I need to tell you something,” he says, then stops. She nods, slightly, and he wonders if she knows what he’s going to say.

She can’t, can she?

“I killed my wife. Barbara. She was a spy, for the Institute, and I killed her.”

“I killed my son. He was their Director.”

“I know that, but -”

She leans in, kissing him warmly on the lips. It starts quietly, a way to shush him perhaps, but then it changes. It’s a voluptuous kiss, full of promise, pregnant with meaning. When she pulls back, he’s gasping. He’d forgotten how good she feels, in his arms, pressed against him. For the first time in months, some part of him feels alive. He thinks of the town below, of the synths down there still needing help to get settled, to become acclimated.

The work won’t end. _He_ won’t end.

And yet - there are things he wants in life. Things he never knew he wanted, not until he met her. Not until he found Shaun.

Now feels like as good a time to ask as any. He pulls off his sunglasses, squinting in the winter sun, and looks into her eyes. She looks happy, lighter somehow. Her eyes trace the line of his jaw, the shape of his nose.

It’s now or never, and so he goes for it.


	18. Epilogue: Beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just kidding! THIS is actually the end, a sweet little epilogue to wrap this thing up for good.

_ beginning _

_ noun _

_ the background or origins of anything _

 

“Dad!”

The voice is small, anxious, excited. It’s so full of feelings he can’t entirely process it. Deacon stands, wiping his hands on his pants. Small rolls of sawdust fly off, catching in the breeze, and floating away to land in the creek. Marty and Sturges stop what they’re doing too; Sturges twirls a hammer in his hand while Marty conscientiously puts his screwdriver in his pocket. 

Shaun is running towards him, running the way Deacon taught him, with his hands pumping up and down and his knees lifting with each step. He’s gotten so fast, and there’s a hot flash of pride in his heart as he watches the boy running up to him. 

“What is it, son?”

_ Son. _ It’s taken some time to get used to that one, but it feels good. Shaun had started calling him Dad just a few weeks after they got here; that had felt natural, real. He wasn’t even sure how many times it happened before he noticed it; Peaches had just pointed out to him one day that he was responding to it, and Shaun had grinned at them and taken off to go play in the creek. 

“It’s Mom,” the boy is breathless, skidding to a stop at the foot of the bridge. Deacon steps forward to keep him from getting too close to the saw lying on the ground, and plants one firm hand on the boy’s shoulder. He’s panting, hands on his knees, and Deacon feels a twist in his stomach.

_Peaches -_

He hopes she’s okay.

“What is it, buddy?”

A grin from his son. “She’s having the baby!”

“What? Wait - what? Now?” He looks back at Sturges and Marty, then at the handrail on the bridge, eyes cataloguing everything but seeing nothing. Where’s his shirt?

“Yes, now! Come on!” Shaun’s hand is in his, small and insistent and slippery with sweat.

Fuck the shirt, he thinks. He doesn’t need it. 

  
He clasps Shaun’s hand and starts up the hill after him to watch the birth of his child.


End file.
